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‘Pick Your Poison’: Louis’ Peculiar Tobacco Pipe

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Note: I originally posted this blog under the heading: “True Tales: The Telling and Writing of History.” I’ve retracted the original post, rewritten parts of it, and posted it under a new title because I felt the short story got lost in the old title. So, for some of you (but very few) the content below will be familiar.

Reading a history book, or an archaeological site report, is pretty boring. We seem to have a knack for putting people to sleep. But then, we never majored in entertainment. Our goal was to find and present evidence and facts about the human past, then interpret them; both had to stand up to the scrutiny of our peers.

Believe me, entertainment never entered the picture.

In my last stint with the Government of Alberta I helped design a few of the human history galleries at the new Royal Alberta Museum. We told the stories of Alberta’s human history, using the archaeological and ethnographic objects in our collections to support those stories.

Our superiors were not always satisfied with just achieving historic accuracy. This was a public institution and people payed to get in. So, “Make it interesting,” were often the comments I received. Make history interesting? Are you kidding? It was hard enough to make it accurate, let alone interesting.

That museum stint was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my career.

However, the Royal Alberta Museum experience got me thinking about how else we might make history more appealing to a broader audience. Perhaps in writing? Story telling? Certainly not written like those detailed history or archaeology books. Don’t get me wrong. Those works are vital. But, often reading them is pretty hard slogging for most people.

Recently I started dabbling in the literary genre of Historical Fiction. It’s another way of presenting history to the general public. But perhaps in a little more palatable form. Unfortunately the word fiction occurs in the genre’s name, and people immediately think that what they are reading is all fantasy – words and ideas imagined, but not grounded in historic facts. Done well, historical fiction should do both: inform you about human history, and entertain you. However, to accomplish this task, some of the content has to be fictionalized.

Let’s look at an example. In one of my posts, I described how stone tobacco pipes found at 18th and 19th century western Canadian fur trade posts have an eastern Canadian Indigenous origin. The archaeological evidence also suggests those more common fragile clay tobacco pipes, smoked by the majority of fort workers, broke a lot. Using those facts, I added the names of some French Canadians working in northern Alberta forts, then placed them in an accurate-as-possible late 18th-19th century Canadian wilderness setting.

And then I wrote a short story how these hardened men, paddling their birch bark freight canoes for endless hours, occasionally stopped and smoked their tobacco pipes. However, one tobacco pipe in particular stood out. It’s a very peculiar tobacco pipe we found at Fort Vermilion (c.1798 – 1830), Alberta, Canada. I won’t say more about it, so as not to give the story away.

‘Pick Your Poison’: The Story of Louis’ Peculiar Tobacco Pipe

This wood cutting of a voyageur, smoking his tobacco pipe, was done by C. Bertsch, from a classic book on the voyageur entitled: The Voyageur, by Grace Lee Nute, 1931. D. Appleton and Company, New York. The pipe form resembles the common short-stemmed clay tobacco pipe, or ‘cuttie’ as it was often referred to. 1

An old voyageur once said: “ I could carry, paddle, walk and sing with any man I ever saw. I have been twenty-four years a canoe man, and forty-one years in service; no portage was ever too long for me, fifty songs could I sing. I have saved the lives of ten voyageurs, have had twelve wives and six running dogs. I spent all of my money in pleasure. Were I young again, I would spend my life the same way over. There is no life so happy as a voyageur’s life!” (from James H. Baker, Lake Superior, Minnesota Historical Collections, 3:342)

Pierre spat out a litany of curse words which even made some of the more hardened voyageurs, paddling the twenty-five long birch bark freight canoe, blush. Finally ending in, “Merde, I broke another one, Cardinal. Now what?” He took the broken remnants of his clay tobacco pipe and savagely flung them overboard towards the fast moving waters of the great river. Instead, sparks and ashes flew everywhere. Some landing on the heads of his compatriots.

These two clay tobacco pipe fragments were recovered from the c.1830 – 1917 Hudson’s Bay Company Fort Edmonton, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. The pipes were made from ball clay and mostly manufactured in Europe. While they were relatively cheap, they were also quite fragile.

His usually silent partner, Cardinal, kneeling beside him in the big canoe, only spat. He learned long ago that these stupid pipes were nothing but trouble. “Chew the stuff, Pierre. Don’t smoke it and you won’t have these troubles.” He spat again.

The brigade’s expressman, Louis, perched at the end of their canoe, yelled out. “Which king are you going to blame and curse for your misfortunes this time, Pierre? Louis or Charles?” Pierre said nothing and finally pointed at the Union Jack emblazoned on the corner of the Canadian North West Company flag fluttering on a pole at the stern of the canoe. “Him.”

The men, trying their best to ignore Pierre, continued paddling up the winding river, moving west with their cargo. They sang, they cursed, they swatted at the swarms of bugs trying to suck the life out of them.

One of the men, finally tiring of Pierre’s latest tirade, changed the subject. He looked over at Blanchet. “So why don’t these cursed mosquitoes and black flies bite you, Blanchet? They’re eating us alive. Some of us are beginning to look pale because of the loss of blood.”

Francois immediately piped up. “It’s because he smells so rank they won’t go near him. Or, perhaps they’re afraid of him. Look at him. He wears that stupid-looking toque day and night now. Add a pair of bells on his toes and he would look the perfect fool. Not far to go there.” More laughter.

Francois wasn’t done. “Or, maybe they can’t find him in the canoe, he’s so short. His head barely clears the gunwales. Good thing his arms are long or his paddle wouldn’t touch the water.”

Francois always had a choice word or two for his partner beside him in the freight canoe. For his efforts he received a paddle of river water in the face from Blanchet. Everyone continued to rib Blanchet for a few more minutes. Finally the brigade stopped again for a break. In each canoe, they were eight strong carrying thirty pieces of freight, each weighing about ninety-pounds, up the rivers to the inland western forts.

Pierre was still fuming, mumbling under his breath. He reluctantly took out a new clay tobacco pipe, filled it with coarse tobacco, and lit up. Blanchet tried not to laugh. Why would he? He had already broken two of his own tobacco pipes and only had two left.

Pierre wouldn’t let up. “At this rate I won’t make it to the next fort before I run out of pipes. These damned things are no good. They burn my lips when I smoke them, and break when I even look at them.”

Then Pierre’s complaining turned in another direction. “And, merde, this stinking American tobacco smells and tastes like horse shit. Oh, what I would give now for some good Hudson’s Bay Company Brazilian tobacco…”

Near the back of the canoe, their expressman, Louis, cut off the fuming Pierre. “And you’ve tried smoking horse shit then, Pierre? You seem to know a lot about it.”

No one laughed. The men barely tolerated the expressman. He had a history.

Louis never had any problems with his tobacco pipe. He smoked a small grey little tobacco pipe, with rather large tulip-shaped bowl. Whenever anyone asked Louis about his pipe, he was always very evasive. When they wanted to examine it he wouldn’t let them.

“Is that pipe sacred, Louis, or what? I think you sleep with it in your mouth. Why don’t you let us see it? And why doesn’t it break? You’ve had that pipe forever.

“Why don’t you shut up and save your breath complaining. Make your own pipes from stronger materials. So they won’t break? You won’t ever make a pipe like this one though. This one’s special.”

……………….

Once the brigades reached their destiny, a few of the men took Louis’ words to heart. Throughout the long, harsh, northern Canadian winter they busied themselves carving a better tobacco pipe, from local rocks and hardwoods. A pipe more like Louis’, that wouldn’t break.

This rare, complete mudstone tobacco pipe was found at the North West Company Fort George (c.1792 – 1800), Alberta, Canada. The mudstone is local, found in round nodules. We found mudstone nodules and detritus from pipe making in the household refuse at the site.

Next spring, as soon as most of the ice left the river, the canoe brigades began their long journey back to Montreal with their furs. Together again, the men joked and talked as they paddled in their canoe. Even looking forward to the long, arduous journey to Montreal. Happy and content. Because it was still too early for the first hatch of bugs. And getting away from the tedious fort life, the screaming children, after a long winter, was a relief.

The water was their home. This is where they were most comfortable. There was barely eighteen inches separating them from a cold, wet death as they sat low in their canoes laden with furs. Soon they would come to the ‘Chutes’ – the most dangerous rapids between their fort and Fort Chipewyan.

Louis sat at the back of the canoe calmly smoking his peculiar pipe. Pierre pulled out his newly made stone pipe and lit it. He had spent many hours carefully carving the hard stone and drilling holes in it for the stem and bowl.

Louis looked at Pierre. “Ah, Pierre, I see you carved a new tobacco pipe last winter. How is it? Does it smoke well? Is it strong? It looks nice, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” thought Pierre. He waved his new stone pipe in the air for everyone in the canoe to see. “The Iroquois along the St. Lawrence make this kind of pipe. I used local stones. Finally a tobacco pipe I can trust. It took me all winter to carve these two, but they seem to work well.”

As he was talking his pipe cooled down. Hot, cold, hot, cold. There’s only so much change in temperature a pipe can stand. Pierre finished his smoke. He banged his pipe against the side of the canoe to knock out the wattle. With his final tap the bowl snapped off, disappearing into the swirling, muddy water.

Again, Pierre was cursing. The more he cursed, the more the men laughed. Someone shouted, “It was too heavy anyway, Pierre. You would have sunk like a stone if you’d fallen into the river with it.” Pierre now had only one pipe left all the way to Montreal.

“Well Pierre, that pipe didn’t seem to last very long either. Nothing like mine,” bragged Louis. Pierre only mumbled under his breath. No one could seem to make a pipe as strong as Louis. The stone pipes became brittle from smoking and broke. And the ones made of wood were no better. They burned because the western trees weren’t hard enough.

The men turned and looked longingly at Louis’ pipe. Again they begged him to tell them his secret. “Tell us Louis. How do you make a pipe like that? To last so long?” But he refused to divulge his secret.

The men paddled, then smoked. Then ate and slept. Woke before dawn, and paddled some more. For endless days, then weeks, then months.

Finally, Montreal was in sight. But the stay was short-lived. Once the freight canoes were repaired and loaded with trade goods, and the men had some time in the City to squander their hard-won earnings, it was time to return to the western forts. Thousands of miles of lakes and rivers to paddle and portage in the hot summer weather. Upstream all the way. Off they went, effortlessly paddling their fragile crafts through the often turbulent waters. Their short paddles were just a blur in the brilliant sunlight, moving the sleek craft against the river currents steadily upstream. Louis sat at the back, as usual, smoking his little tobacco pipe. Cardinal looked back and spat – as usual. Particularly when he looked at Louis.

As Cardinal turned away, Louis looked at his strong back and shoulders, thinking. “Hard to know what that one is made of. Maybe French Canadian, maybe part Iroquois/French Canadian.” It really didn’t matter much to Louis. Cardinal paddled with the best of them and never complained. But he sure spat a lot.

They came to yet another portage. The men began the backbreaking work of carrying their cargo around the rapids. After they disembarked, Louis shouted over to Cardinal. “Where’s your tobacco pipe, Cardinal? Good chance to have a smoke along this long portage. Did it break too”, yelled a somewhat puffed up Louis?”

“Petit malin. Smug, arrogant ass, sitting there in the back of the canoe like he owns the west,” he murmured. “Maybe he thinks he’s the next king. King Louis the XV.” All Cardinal heard for endless days coming out of Louis’ ugly yap was, “Faster men, harder, put your backs into it.” Between puffs on his pipe, Louis constantly gave orders. Always smoking that damned pipe. Or mocking his men when their pipes broke.

A bent over Cardinal walked toward Louis, carrying two ninety pound bales on his back. His tumpline, which was his colourful Assumption sash, usually tied around his waist, was now strung around his forehead. It was taunt from holding the the bales. “Remember knot-head, I don’t smoke.” Just as he passed Louis, he spat out a long stream of green tobacco juice that landed all over Louis’ fine moccasins. The men watched the encounter and then began to compile a song about Louis’ fine moccasins as they staggered up the portage trail behind Cardinal carrying their bales.

The portage

Louis let loose a long string of French curses at Cardinal’s disappearing hulk. “Tomorrow I’ll make you paddle harder, you idiot. And carry more packs up the portages than the others. I’ll even put a black mark beside your name in my record book.”

Cardinal just laughed. “Who cares,” he thought. He knew better. The Company needed his skills and his brawn. They were the best canoe-men in the country. Even their competition admitted it.

And that imbecile, Louis, didn’t have a book. Why would he. He was illiterate, like the rest of them. Cardinal yelled back. “I’ll remember that, Louis. Not to spit on your fine leathers again. Next time I’ll spit into your rum cup instead.” The other men howled with laughter. Nearly dropping their loads. A now red-faced Louis was incensed but didn’t say much more because Cardinal was everything he was not. Smarter, bigger, stronger, and meaner.

This wood cutting of voyageurs, moving their goods across the portage, was done by C. Bertsch, from a classic book on the voyageur entitled: The Voyageur, by Grace Lee Nute, 1931. D. Appleton and Company, New York. Many Canadian rivers contained rapids, too dangerous to run, requiring canoes to be unloaded and packs, weighing ninety pounds, carried around them. It was said some voyageurs could carry two packs; a few, three. It is not surprising to see evidence of herniated discs, arthritic hands and feet on these men. 1

………………………

The years it seemed, for these voyageurs, went by too quickly. A now older Francois was bent over in pain. “I think this might be my last year, Pierre. My bones feel bad. I can barely kneel in this canoe any more. Maybe I’ll retire like Louis. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him for a few years now.” He looked around at some of the familiar, but older-looking faces. Now in their mid-thirties, they too were near their end, as canoe-men, barely able to keep up to the grueling pace and paddling endless days.

Blanchet, smelling as bad as ever, simply shook his head. “Gone.” He grimaced in pain, thinking too this was a game for younger men. Cardinal, as usual, only spat when hearing Francois’s question.

Then Blanchet, after a spell of pain, continued. “I heard he’s living at Fort Vermilion and is not doing so well. They say all he does is sit and smokes all day; and sings his songs.”

Pierre, no longer a paddler but now the expressman, piped up. “We’ll be there tomorrow. We’ll pay him a visit. I wonder if he still has that strange-looking tobacco pipe?”

The next day the brigade landed at Fort Vermilion. They scrambled up the steep, slippery bank falling and cursing, trying to balance their heavy loads. An unhappy Cardinal managed a few words. “Merde! Can’t they make a decent trail up this bank?” Then he spat.

A wheezing Pierre behind him, barely managed an answer between laboured breaths. “They make a trail every year, but every year the high waters take it and some of the bank with it.”

As they neared the fort, now perched precariously on the edge of the river bank, they noticed a frail-looking man sitting on a chair near the front gate. It was Louis. His eyes were staring at something far away. His thin, wispy hair blew in the wind. He barely noticed them. And as he sang, occasionally he stopped and clutched his head, as if in pain; then his stomach.

Louis still smoked his funny little pipe, looking at the sky and waving at some object that only he saw up there, constantly mumbling to himself. “Next time take me with you when you take the La Chasse-galerie back to Montreal. I promise, I’ll not swear or misbehave on the journey. Please, I need to go back to see my loves. All of them.” He then broke into a French-Canadian voyageur song, as if he was still on the river in his canoe:

“Riding along the road from Rochelle city, Riding along the road from Rochelle city, I met three girls and all of them were pretty. Pull on the oars as we glide along together. Pull on the oars as we glide along.”

The old voyageur managed a rather frail hacking laugh after finishing the verse. Then he started severely coughing, emitting a stream of greenish phlegm. Almost hitting Cardinal with it. He sucked some more on his odd little tobacco pipe, which now seemed to have gone out. But he just kept sucking. He continued to mumble and sing, never quite reaching the end of his song:

“I met three girls and all of them were pretty; By chance I chose the one who was the beauty….”

The men looked at one another, bewildered. One of the fort workers had joined them. “He’s like this most of the time now. His wife’s gone. He’s all alone. Never had children, much as he wanted to.”

The men moved past a vacant-eyed, mumbling Louis shaking their heads. Wondering what had happened to him. Thinking about what might happen to them. Was this their fate? After so many years of hardship? Laboring for a few who got rich off their sweat.

As Cardinal went by Louis, he was just about to send a green wad of tobacco juice towards the bumbling man’s shoes. “No. That’s not right. He’s one of us – forever a voyageur. He’s not well. Best to leave him alone.” Instead, he walked past Louis, patting him on the shoulder as he went by, and then on into the fort.

Many fur trade forts sat at the edge of Canada’s rivers and lakes. Fort Vermilion I was no exception. There were good and bad things about placing the forts so near the water. It was easy to haul supplies from the canoes into the forts. But many forts, including Fort Vermilion, flooded on these low river terraces. And, many, years after they were abandoned, slowly eroded into the river. Even though parts of Fort Vermilion were lost, the flooding covered it with river silts, also hiding and preserving it.

…………………………

Harry Reed, archaeologist for the Government of Alberta, and his team were excavating at the Fort Vermilion fur trade site. Occupied by both the North West (c.1798 -1821) and Hudson’s Bay (c.1821 – 1830) Companies, it was one of the oldest and best preserved sites in the middle Peace River region, Alberta, Canada.

Luke, one of his excavators, shouted. “Harry, come and look at this. What is it?” When Harry looked over, Luke was up to his chin in an old building cellar filled with debris. Harry walked over, curious as ever. There was always a surprise or two when he dug at this northern fur trade fort.

Luke handed him the small object. “Sure is heavy for something so small.” Then Harry looked at it closer and gasped. “No, it can’t be. I think this is a tobacco pipe.” But it was no ordinary tobacco pipe. He was certain it was made out of lead.

After looking at the object for some time Harry gave it back to Luke. “Congratulations. You’ve just found one of a kind. Believe it or not, this is an Iroquoian style tobacco pipe base, just missing the bowl. But, made out of lead.”

“Oh cool. But why are you looking so surprised and shocked, Harry? Its just an old pipe, right?”

” Right Luke. And lead is just a harmless metal, popular for pipe making.” Harry walked off without another word, leaving Luke scratching his head.

That evening Harry sat by the camp fire thinking about the strange lead tobacco pipe. He would visit a chemist, perhaps even a doctor, at the University of Alberta and ask the sixty-four dollar question: what happens to you, if you smoked tobacco in that pipe? For years on end. “I wonder what ever happened to its owner? Never mind. Probably died at an early age inhaling those fumes. And likely left no descendants behind to answer my question.”

This unusual lead platform tobacco pipe, missing the bowl on top, was recovered in an old filled-in building cellar at Fort Vermilion, Alberta, Canada. The pipe probably had a wood or bone stem protruding from the hole in the side. Or even an old piece of clay pipe stem inserted into it. The style is similar to the Iroquois platform pipes of the St. Lawrence region of Quebec, Canada. It is still uncertain exactly how it was made. Probably carved/filed or cast in a mold. (In archaeology, you always can tell how hard your people are working by the amount of dirt under their nails. This guy could dig…)

Footnotes:
  1. file:///C:/Users/User/Desktop/hp%20work%20folder,%202021-11-11/Personal/Canehdianstories%20website/Backed%20Up%20Posts/The%20Voyageur.pdf[↩][↩]
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The Christmas Popsicle Murders

Note to My Readers. Over the Christmas holidays I was sitting in my house looking out the window at the miserable weather outside. And believe me, it was bad. As I sat there I wrote this story. It’s a bit dark. Just like the weather outside. I’ve tried capturing the freezing conditions in words. And with images. But I’m afraid no amount of words or images captures what we experienced. Unless of course, you live in Western Canada. Then you know. Those of you reading this living in Florida, southern Italy, or Bora Bora. Sorry. You’ll just have to come here and experience it for yourselves. Heinz Pyszczyk

December 21, 2021, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

It wasn’t a night for popsicles. It wasn’t even a night to be outside.

The two drunks staggered down the dark alley in Chinatown. Ever so careful not to fall or they would immediately freeze to the snow and ice. Teeth chattering, Jack asked. “Where, arrreee wee, sleep…sleeping tonight, Brian? I can’t feel my toes anymore.”

His buddy, Brian answered, slowly. As if trying to force his warm words out into the freezing air. “Don’t know, but we can’t stay out here in this weather.” He tried taking a sip from the wine bottle, only to find it had turned into a wine slushy.

Not only was the alley dark, but the ice fog was now settling in, giving everything an eery flowing appearance. The two men stopped abruptly, swaying slightly, as they saw a human figure propped up against the alley building. Unmoving.

“Stupid shit. Not a night to be out standing around. As we well know…”

The two men staggered up to the figure and then suddenly stopped as the face came into focus. “No wonder he couldn’t talk. A popsicle’s stuck in his mouth. In this weather. No wonder he’s dead.”

“This isn’t popsicle weather, Jack. Looks to me like it’ll take hours before the police can pry that popsicle out of his frozen yap.”

…………………………………..

Fumbling for her phone, which was constantly by her bedside, the yawning detective picked up. “Chan here.” She glanced at her watch. Three A.M. Listening, listening. And nodding to herself as she was waking up trying to process the words on the phone. “O.K., I’ll be right down.” Finally hanging up and getting dressed.

Her partner, Lim, rolled over watching her get dressed. “What is it, Jewel?”

“There’s been a possible murder in Chinatown. I’ve got to go.”

“At this time of night? It’s -38C out there right now. Can’t this wait? The person’s dead. A few more hours won’t matter.”

Before leaving, detective Julia (Jewel) Chan leaned over and kissed Lim on the forehead.

………………………………..

As she drove to the crime scene in Chinatown, the frozen square tires on her car clunking away, Chan thought about her last year on the force. Her car radio played in the background. She’d finally made detective four years ago. But this last year had been rough. Besides a major blunder, being a woman of Asian descent likely was the end of her career path. The radio DJ droned on. “It’s a cold one out there, folks. Bundle up. Exposed skin freezes in about thirty seconds. Why, I heard it was so cold out there, when someone talks to you, you’ll have to catch the words and go inside to thaw them out before you can hear them…” Chuckling.

“Asshole. Typical Edmonton winter humor. No wonder he’s on at three A.M.,” mumbled Julia. The twenty-eight year old Chan felt apprehensive, even queasy as she arrived at the crime scene. Her last investigation was derailed by a leak to the media. Despite her colleagues’ telling her it wasn’t her fault, Chan felt she was being punished. Overlooked as other crimes came up in the following months, not being assigned to any of them. Until now. Feeling down, Chan thought, ‘Probably they couldn’t find anyone else in this miserable weather.’

The alley, still swathed in ice fog, now looked like a Christmas tree, flashing lights of different colors everywhere. Yellow tape running across the alley to keep out curious onlookers. Not that there were any. The freezing cold trumped any curiosity.

Chan, now teeth chattering, was looking closely at the frozen body, still propped against the building wall. She noticed immediately he was frozen to the wall, likely needing a blow torch to remove him. ‘Well, no chance of falling over and shattering. That would spoil the evidence. Sick. Sick. About as bad a thought as that D.J.’, thought Chan.

“Any witnesses? Who found him?”

The young constable beside her responded. “No witnesses to his death/murder. Couple of local outdoors people found him.”

Chan looked at the young constable. ‘Outdoors people?’ Was everyone getting politically correct now? Even when describing two drunks in Chinatown?

The constable went on. “All I could get out of those two wise ones was eating popsicles in wintertime is bad for your health.”

“Alright, constable. I get the picture.”

“Well, at least the evidence is safe. That popsicle isn’t going to melt any time soon.” The constable abruptly stopped laughing, seeing the dark look on Chan’s face. Chan had a reputation in the force – no bullshit while on a crime scene.

“Is Forensics on the way, constable?” The constable merely nodded, not wanting to say anything more to garner that ‘look’ again from Chan.

Chan didn’t see his response. She was leaning forward to examine the frozen corpse more closely. Nothing remarkable about him. Middle-aged Caucasian male, medium build and height. Well dressed. Like he didn’t belong in this back alley in this part of town. Hard to tell eye color or any other details with his face so frosted up, like someone had spilled icing sugar on him.

“Any I.D., constable?”

“Didn’t check. I thought it best to touch nothing and focus on securing the crime scene.”

Chan’s respect for the young constable rose considerably. “Good, constable. No point rummaging around until Forensics is done.”

“What about cause of death, constable? See anything?”

“Nothing obvious. No weapon around. He looks like he just froze to death eating that popsicle. Why would someone stick a popsicle in his mouth? weird ….”

Again, Chan wasn’t paying much attention to the constable. She focused on the popsicle. It was clear, probably just water. She shone her small flashlight on it.

“Jeez, detective. Is that paper inside the popsicle?”

“Looks like it. We’ll have to thaw out the popsicle and see.”

…………………………..

A livid, red-faced Chan was standing in Chief of Detective Johnson’s office. Who stood with his back to her, staring out onto the icy wonderland of downtown Edmonton.

“With all due respect, Chief. I can handle this case. I don’t need an old version of ‘Columbus’ here helping me.”

“It’s ‘Columbo’, detective. Not Columbus. He came earlier.”

Indeed. There standing beside her was an elderly version of the disheveled detective Columbo in that famous TV series years ago. Seemingly not insulted by her words. Staring at the ceiling. And looking and smelling like he was just dragged out of a bar. Or that alley where the murder occurred.

“Detective, given this unusual case, you need some help. You’ll be lead but Art here will help. Considering that note in the popsicle, you might need all the help you can get. I have a feeling this isn’t the last one. I told the captain I wanted a younger man on the case, but he insisted on ‘him’.”

A blushing Chan responded. “Yes, Chief. The note was odd, but if you’ll just give me some time…”

“No, Chan. You need help. Art has a lot of experience with this kind of thing. And I have no choice in the matter.”

Chan rolled her eyes, looking sideways at the almost retired detective Art Fraser, who was now inspecting the Chief’s wall of fame, thinking. ‘Looks as old as Columbus to me.’

“Nice wall you have here, Johnson. Is that you with the mayor? Probably after solving those children’s murders five years ago? But, I don’t see Forsythe’s name anywhere up here. Or his picture. After all, he cra…”

“Enough Art. Go acquaint yourself with Julia and the case. And try to stay out of the bars for a while. Dismissed.” A now agitated Chief Johnson turned his back on the detectives, again looking out his window. It seemed the frosty scene before him trumped anything else Fraser had to say.

As they strode down the hall towards to the elevators, Chan took a sideways glance at Fraser. ‘Great’, she thought. ‘An almost retired detective, with a drinking habit, who doesn’t get along with the Chief. Real good for my career.’

“What was that all about, detective?”

Fraser took his time before answering. “The Chief, shall we say, likes to take credit for other peoples’ hard work. Watch your back, detective.” Before Chan could ask any more, the elevator bell rang, and they faced half a dozen faces. Going down.

……………………..

December 22, 2021

Chan and her now partner gazed at the still somewhat wet note found in the frozen popsicle:

“Those who spew death with their breath shall be punished.

Their life must be stopped to save their fellow man.

You reap what you sow.

One….”

The Popsicle Murderer

Chan looked at Fraser. “Any thoughts, detective?”

“Rather cryptic isn’t it. Sounds like some religious kook. But what’s he/she talking about? For sure, the ‘One’ at the end suggests there’s more to come.”

Chan shuddered. “Shit. Just what we need in Chinatown. There are already enough naturally frozen corpses this time of year.”

Fraser nodded. “And the cause of death is strange. Who could hold a healthy middle-aged man long enough to suffocate him with a popsicle? And why a popsicle? Why not just strangle him and be done with it?”

Chan looked at her report again. It said little else. “Toxicology report is still coming. Maybe something there will help. Maybe some sort of clamp was used around the victim’s throat to hold him while the popsicle was shoved into his mouth. Or, a powerful set of large hands.”

“So, what do we have, Chan? A very strong person, likely a man? Maybe two or three people? Motive? There’s obviously a clue in the note but I’ll be damned if I know what right now.”

………………………….

Standing on the crowded street, hidden among throngs of shouting people, the killer looked on. Over the heads of the crowd. Seemingly oblivious to the harsh Edmonton cold. Picking out the next victim. ‘There, that one. Obviously she needs some cooling off. This freezing weather isn’t enough to shut that yap of hers.’

……………………………..

December 24, 2021

Chan was nervously stroking her scarf as she waited for the Chief to speak. Once again the scene below the window seemed more important to him than his two detectives.

“Tell me, Fraser.  How can something look so beautiful and yet feel so goddamned ugly? Do you know that Canada has the top nine of ten coldest temperatures on Earth? Maybe even rivaling Mars.” Obviously a rhetorical question. Because before Fraser could say anything, Johnson continued.

“Where was this one found?”

‘Here we go,’ thought Chan. “In Chinatown again, Sir. Just off 99th Street, near the Happy Noodle Restaurant.”

“Well, that’s not good business for the Happy Noodle, I suppose,” replied a chuckling Chief. Chan didn’t see the humor. Fraser wasn’t paying attention, more interested in what was on the Chief’s wall of honor.

‘What have I got myself into?’, thought Chan. ‘One’s full of himself and my partner couldn’t care less. They didn’t write this stuff in university texts. Maybe a chapter on how to deal with morons in the workplace would have been useful…’

Finally, Johnson turned and sat down at his desk, nervously watching Fraser perusing his wall.

“Before you give me the details on this latest one, anything more on the first one?”

“Yes Sir.” Chan quickly got her notes out. Fraser was still absorbed by Johnson’s wall. “Autopsy reports death by strangulation/asphyxiation. Nothing from toxicology. He was clean when he died. His name is Dr. James Harrison, M.D. Two kids, wife. Nothing unusual, at least so far. We’re still digging…”

Johnson cut her off, asking, “Not much to go on there. Why would anyone kill a doctor during these Covid-riddled times? And with a popsicle? More rhetorical questions it seemed, as Johnston rambled on. “Go on detective. Or, is that it?”

Fraser finally came out of his wall trance. He took out his notebook and wrote down a few lines. Then looked at Chan.

The captain was eyeing Fraser, and in a rather harsh voice continued. “Fraser, you’ve said nothing useful since assigned to this case. Hung over again? Not feeling up to it? Maybe it’s time we drew up those retirement papers?”

An unfazed Fraser finally spoke up. “Chief, there’s nothing more to say that detective Chan hasn’t already covered. Obviously, whoever killed them, and I say them because this last one had a popsicle stuck down her throat, was one and the same person.”

“Thank you ‘Captain Obvious’ for finally speaking up. Not that it helps…”

“Let me finish, please. This one also came with a note inside the popsicle.” Fraser fumbled for the note in his pocket. It read:

“What makes the heart black?

To not feel the suffering that your actions create.

To not feel your own greed.

To not feel the need of the many.

To not feel your lack of compassion.

To not feel that you got in bed with evil.”

The Popsicle Murderer

“Apparently this was written by the psychic, Suzanne Warner. The murderer plagiarized her work. Must have suited what he/she needed to say.”

“So what, Fraser? There’s nothing there that makes any sense to me.”

By this time Fraser was again examining the chief’s wall. Then he looked closely at one photograph. “Chief, in this one here of you standing beside the Cree Chief, White Tail, I believe. Being congratulated for solving those Indigenous women’s murders in the Edmonton region. Wasn’t it Reynolds that finally cracked…”

“Get the fuck out of my office, now. Both of you. And solve this case. The media’s all over me on these murders. People are scared. And you’re in here staring at my wall. Get out.”

As they left, Fraser turned to Chan. “And I always thought he loved the media. And they him.”

………………………….

A now totally befuddled Chan followed Fraser down the hall, out into the freezing cold, the sun blazing on the snow almost blinding her. “What exactly do you two have going, Fraser? Christ, two meetings and you’ve pissed him off both times.”

A smiling Fraser, pulling his hat down low to shield the blinding sun, almost sounded cheerful. “I’ll guarantee you, Chan, it’s not love. Don’t stay in his office too long. He could ruin your whole day.”

“But, Fraser, he has a right to know. He’s our boss. We can’t just be vague with our reports.”

“You can’t, Chan. I however can. Anyway, let’s grab something to eat. How about some Dim Sum, in keeping in the spirit of the murders? There’s some stuff we should go over. Doing it over lunch is as good a place as any.”

Chan, shaking her head, “In keeping with the spirit of the murders? What a morbid comment!”

Undaunted, Fraser responded. “Besides I need to talk to some people in Chinatown that could help us.”

Twenty minutes later the two detectives were sitting in the Green Rice Bowl in Chinatown. Chan was genuinely surprised at Fraser’s knowledge of the little dishes that the waiters carted past their table. And his familiarity with management.

“I didn’t take you as a Chinese food connoisseur, Fraser.”

Fraser merely smiled. “I order Chinese take-out like everybody else.”

“But, these dishes are different. One wrong nod and you could be eating gelatinous chicken feet. Not a western specialty. Or favourite.”

“I come down here often. Lim and I are related.” Suddenly Fraser grew quiet, and his eyes grew foggy. Chan sensed something was wrong and didn’t push it.

Fraser saved the rather awkward moment of silence by jumping into the case. “O.K., let’s start profiling the killer and see how far we get. And, perhaps more importantly, see what we still don’t know. We’ve had two murders in Chinatown in the past four days. Same method. So, it’s highly likely it’s the same person.” Fraser stopped and sipped his tea when he saw Chan was about to jump in.

“What I don’t understand, is what the two murders and victims have in common. One’s a while male doctor and the other one’s a Chinese teacher. Different neighbourhoods, not related…. So, we have no connecting motive. Only with some cryptic notes and two popsicles.”

Fraser listened patiently until Chan finished. “I think the notes tell us the murderer is out for some sort of revenge. Exactly what, I don’t know. But, like many of these serial cases, the devil’s in the details. I had toxicology do some extra testing. Not on the bodies, but on the popsicles.” Fraser pulled a page out of his pocket and handed it to Chan.

Chan began reading and her mouth opened in surprise. “Oh, my goodness. What the hell. Is that it then, Fraser? The motive? But why them?” Fraser filled her in on his suspicions. Calmly sipping his green tea.

“I’ll see you back at the office, Chan. I have to talk with some people down here. In the meantime, why don’t you dig deeper into the history of the victims. There has to be some sort of connection.”

……………………………

December 26, 2021

Father Sinclair strode through the dark, quiet church when he heard sounds. It was late. Nothing was stirring outside in the freezing Edmonton cold. ‘Maybe a poor soul come out of the cold to seek warmth here,’ thought the priest. Every available building space in and around Chinatown was filled with the homeless as the northern vortex cracked down on Edmonton like a whip, freezing everything in its path.

“Anyone there? Come, no need to hide.” The Father continued down the aisle and then strode towards a darkened vestibule where he thought he heard the sound.

Suddenly a whisper. “Do you repent, Father?”

Sinclair froze when he heard the words. Nearly as quickly as if he were outside in the northern winter. It came again. “Do you repent, Father?”

Sinclair walked shakily toward the voice in the darkness. “Repent for what?”

Just as he was about to enter the darkness of the vestibule a large hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. “For your sins, Father. For your sins.”

The hand pulled the struggling priest off his feet. Then something long and icy entered his throat while fingers pinched his nostrils shut. And as he died, he heard the killers words. At first strong, then ever dimmer. “For your sins, Father. For as Luke has written, “I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” Then there was only cold and darkness, melding in with the weather outside.

…………………………….

Lights flashing, driving to the next murder scene at St. Paul’s Cathedral, Fraser and Chan were engulfed in their own thoughts. The streets had a glossy sheen, as if curlers had been out all night polishing the ice. Suddenly everything stopped in front of them.

“Crap,” muttered Fraser. “Water main break. We’ll have to detour. Looks kind of pretty though. The water shooting ten metres in the air and then hitting the street as ice. You don’t see that very often.”

Chan looked at her partner somewhat askance. It seemed nothing fazed the old detective. The DJ on the radio squawked, “Yes, folks, another frosty night in Edmonton, as the thermometer is reading -39C. Not a night for eating popsicles….” The media were running with the popsicle jokes whenever they could as the murders unfolded.

“Asshole,” mumbled Chan as they detoured around the water line break. Maybe this was an opportunity to go over their latest evidence before being assaulted with a new murder.

“Tell me Fraser, why did you have that popsicle analyzed? I mean it just looked like a popsicle. Nothing unusual?”

After some thought Fraser answered. “It was what that dipshit Chief of ours said at our last meeting. Why would anyone use a popsicle to murder someone? There are simpler ways. The killer was sending us a message.”

“He sure was. There was enough Covid virus in that popsicle to kill thousands.”

“And what did you find out from the background check on our two victims?”

Chan, quite pleased, gushed forth. “Both victims were extreme anti-vaccers. Both were in the media lately denouncing Canada’s vaccination program.”

“It seems then, Chan, we have our motive. Someone out there really hates anti-vaccers. And my guess, it’s probably a personal thing. Maybe lost someone close to them from Covid.”

“Well, that doesn’t narrow it down much, does it. There are thousands of grieving people out there who lost wives, husbands, mothers…. What sets this one apart? And how does the killer choose the victims. He/she can’t just do a door to door survey to find out who hates vaccines, right?”

Fraser gave Chan a brief glance then tapped the radio.

Chan gasped. “Oh my God, Fraser, the media?”

Fraser merely nodded as they drove through the icy night. Both pondering the events. Rethinking the evidence. And wondering who the next victim would be.

…………………………

Chan and Fraser sat in the Johnson’s office. A pacing Johnson wanted answers. The tension in the room was as cold and brittle as the outside northern air. Fraser as usual wasn’t paying too much attention, instead staring at the chief’s bare wall – the one where all his awards used to hang.

“What happened, chief?,” asked Fraser pointing at the wall. “Making room for the next batch?”

Johnson, barely able to contain himself, asked through gritted teeth. “You two better have something for me. Instead of the usual wisecracks. Especially you, Fraser. The Chinese community is in an uproar. The captain wants results. And the mayor is beginning to wonder what we’re up to. Well, what are we up to?”

‘And you want some glory,’ thought Fraser.

“Well, Sir, there have been some developments.”

Johnson waited, but Fraser didn’t share any more information. “Some developments? Yes, I know that. Another murder. We have a priest, with a popsicle stuck down his throat, frozen solid to a statue of Luke, outside St. Paul’s cathedral. And, on the letter board on the lawn, the words, ‘I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? And why kill a man of the cloth? Of the people?

Chan looked at Fraser before answering. “If I may, Sir. We think the murders are all connected by the fact that all three were public anti-vaccers. They appeared on TV or at public demonstrations. So, we have motive. The popsicles are laced with the Covid virus. Probably intended to send a message about what will happen if you speak out against vaccination. In a rather morbid way, the killer seems to be trying to get people to vaccinate before more people die.”

A slow smile spread on Johnson’s face. “Good work. So, are we getting close to who’s killing out there?” asked the Chief.

Before Chan could answer, Fraser cut in. More focused than he ever was in the last few days.

“I think so, Chief. We’re about to write out warrants and go in for an arrest.”

“That’s great news! Great news!,” shouted the Chief. “Do you have the case file with you?”

A now thoroughly confused Chen again looked at Fraser as if silently imploring him for guidance. “Yes, Chief. But we kind of need to…”

“Then hand it over, Chan. I’ll take it from here. You two take a break. You’ve been going at it hard for the last week.”

“But, chief, there are still some loose ends…..”

“O.K. Chan. Let’s go. You heard the Chief. He’ll take it from here.” Fraser grabbed Chan’s arm and led her out of the office before she could say any more.

Outside the office, Chan yanked her arm away from Fraser’s grip. “What the hell are you doing Fraser? We don’t have a clear suspect, and you know it. What did you put in that file? Fraser, what’s going on here? Something’s really off. Just like this stinking weather.”

“Tea, Chan? Looks like you could use a cup of good strong green tea.”

“I don’t want tea, Fraser. I want answers to all this god dammed weirdness.”

“Trust me Chan. Things are not what they seem.”

“No shit, ‘Captain Obvious’.”

Fraser just shrugged as they opened the door and received a blast of cold Arctic air. ‘God, I’m getting tired of the ‘Captain Obvious’ thing….’

…………………………

The white-hot lights were blinding. And deceiving. They didn’t seem to make anything warmer outside the suspected ‘popsicle’ murderer’s house. In the middle of the camera lights stood a calm Chief Johnson. Teeth barely chattering. “We have a suspect and I’m pretty certain we may have an arrest shortly. Then all Edmontonians will sleep better as we put the murderer away.”

In her apartment, snuggled under an enormous blanket, Chan watched as Johnson walked to the front door of the house, a small army of police officers in his wake, to make an arrest.

“Good work, Julia. Looks like all your hard work paid off.” Lim, sitting next to her, patted her on the shoulder.

In another part of the City, Art Fraser sat in his easy chair watching the same TV coverage. Scotch in a trembling hand, which had already held two others before this one. Smiling and mumbling, “Well, chief, as they say in the movies. Make my day.”

……………………………

Some Days Later

They sat in the newly appointed Lieutenant’s Chief of detectives office. Drinks in hand going over the events of the case. Silently contemplating what just had happened. And relieved the case was behind them.

“Congratulations, Chief. I believe you’re the youngest Chief of detectives ever appointed. And the first woman. And the first of Asian descent. You must be proud.”

Chan sighed. “I am. Kind of. I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for your help, Fraser. And the looks I get from some of the senior detectives. As if saying, ‘a token woman, and a token minority. She never would have got the job on merit alone.’ That galls me a bit.”

“But you deserved it, Julia. You cracked the case. I didn’t see what you saw in those popsicle sticks. My Chinese connections told me that companies make monogrammed popsicle sticks. But I didn’t put two and two together. Pretty astute observations on your part.”

“Well, before we get into that, why were you appointed to this case? And who appointed you? Surely not just to help out?”

“No. I was put on the case to ferret out a rat. We suspected Johnson of leaking information to the media for several years. That way he was always in the spotlight, and the media were at his beck and call. He ruined your last case by leaking information to the media, thus, forewarning our perp who then destroyed incriminating evidence before you moved in. As to who I worked for, that’s irrelevant. But, I’m sure you can make an educated guess. There’s a reason the police investigate themselves. No one else really knows what’s going on inside.”

“O.K., O.K. I can read between the lines. But, you set up Johnson. You deliberately led him to the wrong suspect with that monogrammed popsicle you placed in the evidence report. A very powerful person from the University. Kind of underhanded and almost illegal wouldn’t you say, Fraser?”

“Well, not something you might find in your university textbook, but we had to nail him. Besides, he wasn’t thorough enough. If he would have read further into the file, he would have realized that Dr. Yumoto couldn’t be the killer. Yumoto is at best five feet, five inches tall, weighs one-hundred and fifty pounds, is seventy-five years old with a heart condition. No, the chief wanted to believe so badly, he only read part of the report, because he craved the limelight. Another trophy on his wall.”

“Did Yumoto know this was coming.”

“Yes. We had to forewarn him. He played along when we explained things. Helluva job acting for the media when he cussed out Johnson.”

They sipped their drinks in silence. After some time Fraser continued. “But it was you who noticed the real damming evidence, Chan. That wasn’t a popsicle stick at all used in those murders. It was a tongue depressor. Looks like a big popsicle stick. First big clue. Second, no one thought much about the Chinese symbols on the depressor. Probably made by a Company in China. So what.”

“Yeah, that was a break. ‘You reap what you sow’ in Chinese symbols. The killer used that phrase in the first murder message. And then monogrammed on the tongue depressor. Not too smart for a Ph.D. in medicine.”

Fraser continued. “So, those clues narrowed it down. Someone very knowledgeable in medicine, a strong athletic, with a real hate for anti-vaccers because Covid killed someone they loved dearly. The pseudo-pyschic and religious slogans were intended to lead us astray. So how many people with those attributes fit that profile? And when we re-examined the media footage, she stood out like a sore thumb.”

Chan chuckled. “She threw a few of the arresting officers around as if they were dumbbells. Olympic weightlifters can do that. And then we found more tongue depressors with the same slogans.”

 Chan, caught up in her own reverie, failed to see Fraser now standing in front of her office wall. Carefully examining the lone photograph, of the mayor handing her the commendation for cracking the Christmas popsicle murders. 

“Chan, I don’t see….”

Chan cut Fraser off. “Fraser, don’t even go there….”

They both laughed and tipped their glasses in salute gazing out at the frozen world and the City called Edmonton. Below them striding across the street were a bunch of revelers going to the Oilers game.

Chan gasped. “Are they nuts, Fraser? They’re only wearing Oilers jerseys and shorts! It’s -35C out there. And what the hell are they sucking on?”

Fraser took a quick look. “I think popsicles, Julia.”

Posted on

‘WE’ AND THE RACE AGAINST THE SLOW SWIMMERS: A Short Story

Non nobis solum nati sumus.

(Not for ourselves are we born)

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 2021

The grim looking group of scientists sitting around the table listened to renowned Doctor Derrick Smith, a leading authority in his field. “And so, to summarize, the news is not good, ladies and gentlemen. Humanity is in trouble. All the factors I mentioned, along with the increasing numbers of slow swimmers, could jeopardize humankind. And dogs.” The meeting adjourned and the small, assembled group of scientists went back to their respective countries to report to their governments.

………………….

In another part of the hospital, it was not humankind that was in jeopardy. But the life of one man. A dying Jason Parry, just turned thirty-five, lay in his bed trying desperately to breath and focus. A renowned neurosurgeon at the University of Alberta Hospital, Parry, through strained breaths, was having trouble believing what he was hearing.

The masked doctor looked at Parry, marked sorrow in both his eyes and voice. “I’m sorry Dr. Parry, there’s nothing more we can do. This strain of Covid is lethal. C-9.9.9 kills over eighty-five percent of those infected. Of all ages.”

Parry’s wife, Susan, burst into tears. His two young twin sons were running around in stockinged feet, trying to give one another electric shocks. The doctor, shaking his head, left the grieving family alone.

Parry, trying to keep calm, considered his options. Death, it seemed, lurked at the doorstep. Threatening to end his life and eventually over one-quarter of the world’s population. If the Covid virus didn’t render humans extinct, the slow swimmers might.

After considering, Parry finally made his choice.

“O.K., let’s do it. Say goodbye to Jake for me.” At his words, his wife cried more, now joined by his bewildered sons.

Parry had to have faith in the new, highly controversial cryonics technology. His last thoughts were that Jake’s kind might be in trouble too.

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 2200

Parry woke, to a dimly lit room, aware of the burning sensation in his body. The anti-freezing fluids were being flushed out of his system, returning it to its normal temperature.

Suddenly, a face, immersed in some sort of bluish halo, loomed over him shining a tiny light into his one eye. “Can you talk, Dr. Parry? Just easy now. Don’t raise your voice. Everything kind of needs to warm up first.”

“Where am I,” croaked Parry. “Am I alive? Who are you? Is this a dream?”

“Easy now, Dr. Parry. All in good time. First we must assess your condition. After all, you’ve been out for a while.”

Parry, confused by this remark, asked, “Haven’t you frozen me yet, Doctor? I thought we were going ahead with the cryonics?”

“Oh, Dr. Parry, you were out for a while – 179 years to be exact. But you’re back now.”

“Oh, God. It must have worked…”

Doctor Goodwin interrupted. “Now, Dr. Parry, just relax. You have a lot to catch up on.” Earlier Goodwin, after consulting with his team of experts, while worried about bringing Parry back to life, worried more about his mental condition. He touched Jason’s left arm with a blunt metal object, and the increasingly anxious Parry immediately was out again.

………………….

Parry felt much better when he woke up the next time. Goodwin was standing nearby.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Parry? Any pain anywhere? Your vitals look good. No problems that we can see.” Goodwin suddenly looked up as if viewing something in the distance. Occasionally nodding his head as if in agreement.

“We’ll start with some basic information.” Goodwin seemed to be looking off into the distance again as if he were examining data on a computer screen.

Parry saw a radiating metal band around Goodwin’s head. Technology to allow him to connect with his computer? Where’s the computer?, wondered Parry. Suddenly a transparent, virtual bluish screen appeared, and Parry saw data on the screen floating in the air. His vitals, he presumed. Parry relaxed, thinking to himself, Take it easy, Jason. This won’t be your first surprise.

“First things first, Dr. Parry. In the next few days, we’ll put you on an exercise program to rejuvenate those muscles. You’ve been rather lazy lately, laying around for 180 years.” Goodwin chuckled at his own joke resulting in a line of little bluish laughing heads appearing on the virtual image.  

Goodwin continued. “First though, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

“Where am I? In Edmonton?” Goodwin only nodded and said nothing, thinking. Close enough. An Edmonton of sorts, Jason Parry.

“Why did you ‘revitalize’ me now?”

“Two reasons, Dr. Parry. First, the advance in cryonics five years ago. In your time it was considered a long shot at best. Dangerous at worst. There was a breakthrough in reconstituting the brain’s neural net.”

“And the other reason, Doctor?”

“Before you were frozen, Dr. Parry, you had the C-9.9.9 variant. It killed millions, before we finally managed to eradicate it.”

“And the problem, Doctor?”

“Your variant mutated while you were under. We didn’t know how to treat it. No one wanted to let the genie out of the bottle. And infect the world with a new strain of Covid. But with recently approved nanotechnology in medicine, we sent in nanobots to kill the variant, before resuscitating you. You’re cured. And, so far there aren’t any runaway bots taking over the world.”

Before Parry could ask any more questions, Goodwin jumped in. “I think, Dr. Parry you need to rest now.

“I agree, Doctor. Perhaps you could arrange some reading for me to start catching up.”

Goodwin chuckled. “Reading, Doctor? You’d be dead by the time you caught up. No, we’ve arranged something better.” He seemed to be looking into space again and suddenly an image of two middle-aged men and one woman appeared in the room. Parry squinted. First amazed at the imagery and technology. Then at the vaguely familiar faces, reminding him of his wife and two boys.

“Dr. Parry, meet some of your direct descendants. I’ll let them tell you how we’re going get you set for your new world.” Goodwin speculated, Well, if this doesn’t put him over the top, nothing will.

Parry stared at them, then broke down crying. Sarah, Graham, and Dallas came closer trying to virtually console him.

…………………

Introduction To A Changing World, 2100

Parry opened his eyes to what seemed more like a dream than reality. Beside him stood his three descendants. Shimmering, not looking quite right either. Sarah talked first. “Hi Gramps. Can I call you Gramps or Jason. Great, Great, Great…. Grandfather seems rather long.”

“I kind of like Gramps. Has an old ring to it. Where are we? Am I sleeping? This doesn’t feel right.”

Dallas answered. “Gramps, this is something called virtual history. You can interact with it and ask anything you like about the year 2100. Eventually, we’ll take you forward to the present.”

“But how am I seeing this? I have no goggles or headgear on.” Then Parry felt the thin band on his head.

“We don’t need those anymore, Gramps. With that headband, this info-site is directly connected to your brain. You will take a virtual tour back to 2100 and we’ll explore some key things that changed in the world since 2021.”

Suddenly there standing before him were now much older versions of his two sons, Eric and Neil.

“This is so extraordinary. I have so many things to ask you.” His sons greeted him warmly as if alive.

“Well, let’s skip the family stuff until later. Let’s first check out the world.” Graham watched carefully. Too much emotion from Parry and he was instructed to end the session immediately.

Eric asked, “Dad, before you left us, what major problem did our world face?”

A confused Parry blurted out, “Climate, energy, disease, pollution, overpopulation, obesity, racial and religious issues, human inequality. It’s a long list, Eric.”

“Think again, Dad. Back then we had the means to fix most of those things but couldn’t because one of them trumped all.” Eric watched the thinking Parry.

“Well, the world’s geopolitical systems were the major thing holding us back. They were broken, unwieldy, corrupt, or misguided by ideological and religious dogma.”

A major map of the world appeared in front of Parry. Over the world floated a large logo, with two green letters, WE. In the background a voice droned on, describing the new world political order. Parry stared, barely able to comprehend what he was watching.

Neil began. “You’re right, Dad. Our politics, whether domestic, international, democratic, dictatorial, and everything in-between, were destroying us. We couldn’t cooperate on anything globally. Leaving our poor world in shambles and continual threats of war. That had to change. In a way, a declining world’s population, helped by the Covid pandemic, unraveled the old system. And so did the slow swimmers, although they could still do us in. World economies were destroyed, and along with them those with the power to manipulate the political system to their own ends. There was rioting, civil war, and totally anarchy the world over. And more died.”

The world map contained only six names. New America; Ant-America; Europa; Africa; Asia; and Oceania. Eric pointed out, “These, Dad, are the new political entities or super-countries if you will. Canada is no longer a sovereign nation but now part of a larger continental entity, New America, under one government. Former countries of these new entities had to unify because of the economic turmoil and population decline. We’re not quite done but making progress. Both New America and Asia is still attempting to revert to older power systems. But the people are forcing change on a scale never seen before.”

“But how does this even work?,” blurted a confused Parry.

Neil chimed in, “First, governments of these Nation continents are formed by the people…”

Parry, now totally fired up, cut in. “Yes, and then corruption sets in and our political leaders are manipulated by capitalist or ideological agendas. Or, someone just downright becomes greedy and takes sole power, passing it down to their children and bleeding off all the wealth, leaving most people powerless with nothing.”

Eric interjected. “You can imagine, Dad, there was major unrest and the most corrupt world leaders were held accountable. They lost the power they once had as the world’s population crashed. Disease deniers were murdered. A new order emerged.”

Neil continued. “The new political order realized that religion and the state must be separated – a former rule that had become more and more blurred in many countries. But also, capitalism and the state needed to be separated. We still have a capitalist system, but it can’t influence or buy the governing body. No more candidates who will get corporations more money and power if elected, with large donations. No more political lobbying and bribery with perks, or threats. No more inserting candidates into political positions because of certain religious beliefs.”

“But, where do the politicians get their money to campaign?”

“The state gives eligible candidates a certain amount of money to run for political positions.”

“What, eligible? Qualify to be a politician? Wouldn’t that disqualify many people from even running? And, what qualifications would you need?” Parry thought he hadn’t heard right.

A list appeared in front of Parry. “There they are, Dad. At least three years of civic political experience, being elected democratically. To really understand humanity and its history, requires courses in anthropology, history and sociology. And, if you wish to go on to the world governing level, courses in international relations. By the time you go through all these steps, it eliminates most of the shysters who went into politics for power and self-aggrandizement.”

“Those types can’t use their wealth to influence the political system. They have to play by the rules. We now have more informed politicians who represent New America, based on region and/or population as before. Then, one is chosen from the elected to lead. For only a five year term. There are no political parties.”

Parry shook his head, wondering if such a system could even work? A politician, unhindered by donors, party agendas, working solely to carry out the wishes of the people and the laws and rules of the land, based on sound facts?

Something about world politics, from Eric’s former statement, prompted another question from Parry. “But, wouldn’t these new countries continue to bicker about world issues? Like climate?”

An image appeared, of a large council chamber, capable of seating thousands, similar to the United Nations. In its center sat twelve delegates, two people representing each continent.

“The United Nations was revamped into a new political system that over-arches the six continents. It has the power to deal with global matters and those possibly from outer space. Anything or anyone that threatens the earth, be it pollution, over-population, disease, or outsiders is handled at this political level.”

Eric pointed, “That’s its logo, WE, floating over the earth.”

“Meaning, WE the people, I assume? Instead of ME, as in MYSELF,” asked Parry.

“Partly, Dad. It represents the two cornerstones of new world order policies. WASTE and EFFICIENCY. Dad, your era wasted about 42% of all energy you made for transportation, heating, etc., and one-third of all food produced. We’ve reduced those figures to about 10% each. Eventually we’ll reach zero waste. That alone would make a big difference in harmful emissions and human inequality.”

“Then, I take it EFFICIENCY means better, cleaner energy for homes, manufacturing and transportation?”

“Yes, Dad. And a host of other things as well.”

“Solving our energy crisis, for example, for the benefit of all continents and while not affecting the earth’s environment is among one of the most monumental challenges we’ve ever faced. But, in your day it couldn’t happen. This governing body realizes that success can only come from cooperation. Globally.”

A fascinated Parry watched the session. Shouting broke out between the Australian and Asian delegates. The Australian was speaking loudly. “Your policies on energy are still inefficient. There’s a grey cloud of shit hanging over Asia, yet you’re still reluctant to accept cleaner energy solutions. That will just increase the slow swimmers.”

The Asian delegate, equally angry, shouted back. “We’re trying but are not technologically ready. If you would share more of that new energy information with us, perhaps we could resolve the problem faster. And remember Mr. Osborn from Australia, soon we will be neighbors, so try to be more civil.”

A perplexed looking Aussie, asked, “Neighbors? We’re neighbors already. Too close in fact. When the winds blow right, your big blob of suet covers our continent.”

The Asian delegate shot back, “That’s not what I meant Mr. Osborn. In about two-hundred million years, as the continent of Australia creeps toward us 2.2 inches a year, it will bump up against Asia and we will be very close neighbors.” This got a round of applause and laughter from the assembly.

Even the Australian delegate laughed.

Parry and his sons chuckled at the outbreak. Parry asked, “But how is a final decision enforced?”

“None of the continents has a standing army, Dad. Or major weapons of mass destruction. Only the world authority can amass an army to ensure compliance, if necessary. So far, it hasn’t been necessary. These diplomats and politicians know what a mess the world is in. They realize if they don’t work together for the interests of the planet, all on earth are doomed.”

Later as Parry and his sons sat watching the hockey game, catching up on family matters, Parry, still perplexed about a few other things, casually asked.

“What about race? When I left, racial tensions and intolerance throughout the world were off the charts.”

Neil answered. “Racial and gender equality have improved, and our leaders are better educated and more tolerant to racial issues. That has helped but maybe not be enough. So, as we speak, Dad, the borders between continents are opening. People will be allowed to choose where to live. Up to the point when it might no longer be safe, economical, or endanger cultural diversity.”

Parry couldn’t believe his ears. “What? You can’t do that. We’ll be flooded with humans wanting to live here.”

“And how did your borders work before, Dad? They only caused turmoil, inequality, fear and hate. Remember, this is no longer 2021. We desperately need people. Or, our economies will crash again. Eventually all economies will balance out and people won’t need to flee. If you had a choice and could live comfortably in Columbia, raise a family and make a living, or live in northern Alberta, which would you choose?”

Parry, in defense of northern Alberta, answered, “There’s nothing wrong with northern Alberta. But I see your point. There would be less incentive to move. People were moving before because of warfare, starvation, or suppression.”

“Right,” interjected Eric. That’s been solved for the most part. By opening the borders, we think there will be more inter-racial interactions, intermarriage, and economic equality, improving tolerance. It’s a big gamble. We don’t know what will happen. We may lose our cultural diversity. Or, it might be strengthened. When you go to 2200, you’ll probably have an answer. It could lead to total racial retrenching which might lead to more conflict.”

“Another question. Are we too late in reversing some of the things we’ve done to world climate?”

“Don’t know, Dad. The most efficient energy policies currently available are now fully implemented. Waste of and polluting energy continues to drop. CO2 emissions are down to manageable levels. But is it too late? Our sea levels continue to rise. But, the world hasn’t sunk under the oceans, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’d hoped there would be flying cars by now. Or teleporting,” grumbled Parry.

Eric paused the game and brought up an image of cars traveling down streets. “Not there yet, Dad, but way better than in your day.”

Parry watched the traffic but heard no noise. “What are they running on?”

“Right now, mostly electricity. But the real big breakthrough are the tires.”

“The tires?,” asked Parry.

“Nanotires, Dad. Vehicle travel causes friction on the roads which is converted into electricity. Those tires are recovering about 35% of the energy used in fuel. Someday that technology may be efficient enough to recover enough electricity to power that car.”

Suddenly the game was interrupted by a news flash. There on the streets, what looked like a pack of robotic dogs were chasing someone frantically trying to escape in a vehicle. Eric moaned. “Oh, God. The health hounds again.”

An incredulous Parry looked on. “Health hounds?”

An embarrassed looking Eric simply said. “An experiment, Dad, intended to deal with health issues, gone terribly, terribly wrong.” His son filled a concerned Parry in on the details.

The game resumed. “But our biggest concern Dad, are the increasing slow swimmers.” The sons then told their father about this dilemma as they watched the rest of the game. As usual the Canadians won.

 Back To 2200

Goodwin, standing near Parry, looked off into his own space and data, to see how his patient was doing.

“Welcome back, Dr. Parry. How are you feeling?”

“Surprised, shocked, puzzled, but well enough. So much changed in less than 100 years. Is there more to come?

“Yes, Doctor. Hopefully that session lessens the shock of the present. I have a surprise for you.” Then Dr. Goodwin looked off into his head and checked Parry’s vitals, making sure he was stable.

The door opened and in walked Dallas, Sarah and Graham, in the flesh. An emotional, befuddled Parry, still adjusting to jumping ahead of his children and grandchildren into this future world, gave them a big hug.

Parry finally regained his composure and spoke. “You all look so great. I’m anxious to see this new world and get to know you. I hope I’m ready.”

“We’ll take it slow, Gramps. Brace yourself. Edmonton is different from when you left. First we’ll show you some of the City and then try to put it all into perspective.”

They left Parry’s room and entered a large atrium teeming with plants. It almost looked like they were outside. Sarah caught Parry staring. “We incorporate as much plant life into our public buildings as possible. It’s not just decorative but practical. All building interiors produce oxygen and absorb CO2. The entire building is designed to produce electricity and geothermal heating, give off zero emissions and generates more energy than it uses.”

Parry marveled at the vastly improved energy efficiency as they passed out the building doors. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the streets. They were covered with a mixture of grass and some black glassy-looking material. Wheeled vehicles drove on the latter while other vehicles floated over the former. “Gramps, those glassy-looking surfaces are solar arrays embedded into the road, to produce electricity, for the wheeled vehicles. The nanogenerators in the tires on wheeled vehicles now recover 85% of the car’s expended energy by producing electricity from friction. The cars gliding over the grass, based on electromagnetics or maglev, are fueled by electricity. Our entire rapid transit systems are now all maglev – quieter, faster and more efficient. You can travel from one side of the continent to the other at the speed of sound on the maglev trains.”

Parry, barely paying attention was down on his knees examining the intricate solar arrays embedded in the road. “But the maglev cars don’t produce any friction on the ground, so no electrical recovery?”

“We’re producing electricity from friction caused when a car, train, or plane moves through the air. Our new generation of nanogenerators convert mechanical energy, caused by air friction over their bodies to generate power. We’ll show you more examples of this in a bit.” Sarah towed a reluctant Parry toward a row of vehicles.

Once inside their vehicle, Graham punched in some numbers on the computer console and off they went. No one was driving. As they neared the residential parts of the City, Parry noticed that the structures were barely visible, looking like mounds buried under sod and grass. Only the south-facing facades showed, flowing out into yards. They also looked longer as if several houses were connected.

Parry asked, “Are these residences?”

“They are, Gramps. Mostly buried, with very low profiles to provide insulation and conserve heat in our very frigid winters.”

Parry was impressed. “So, these are just cold climate residences? What about the rest of the more temperate and tropical world? Are houses still usually above ground?”

 “The same principle holds even in the tropics but is reversed. Instead of keeping the cold out you keep the heat out. And conserve electricity required for air-conditioning.”

Their ride finally stopped beside one of the units. “Is this all yours? I thought by now we would have scaled back a little on residential space,” asked a puzzled Parry.

“Welcome home, Gramps.”

“I’ll be living with you? I don’t want to intrude.”

“That’s why this unit is so big, Gramps. It contains our entire extended families. Children, parents, grandparents all live together. It’s divided into private units, but we all interact. We care for our elders at home with help. When we’re away, the elders care for the children. Even if we’re not away, the social interaction is important for both. Many societies of the past used these same organizational principles, but western society mistakenly decided the nuclear family was the way to go.”

 Parry entered the cement encased house, well lit with light tubes, despite being mostly underground. His new family greeted him warmly in anticipation in seeing someone from the past. Stan, an elderly man met him and shook his hand. “Welcome, Gramps, I can’t beat your 214 years even though I’m a spry 130.” They both laughed at the joke.

The next day, before his daily stroll, Parry listened to the news casts on his virtual communications device, powered by the electricity generated by the friction from his shoes and cloths he made when walking. It sounded like the new world political system was still holding up. Then the news turned to the national stage where reports of rising sea levels were causing concerns in coastal communities.

Parry noticed that many fences and other hard surfaces had a strange coating of material on them. “Sarah, what’s that stuff on the fences? I even saw it in the toilet bowl.”

“Those are water motion active transducers. Tiny flexible, transparent electrodes that coat windows, roofs and even toilet bowls, to generate electricity from friction produced by raindrops and any water flow. All the water piping in our homes is coated with it, producing electricity. We even coat our new storm sewers with them to generate electricity for the City.”

“Then our energy and emissions problems are solved, with these technologies?”

“Yes, mostly, but we are still developing more efficient, less intrusive technologies. See that pole with what look like tiny filaments hanging by that house there. Those are tiny protein microwires made from geobacteria, capable of generating electricity from water vapour in the air. They work anywhere, including the driest parts of the world.”

A stunned Parry shook his head. “Do you still make beer, Sarah? I need a few right now to better absorb all this.”

Sarah laughed. “Some things, Gramps, can’t be improved upon. Just like our hockey.” They walked into the nearby neighborhood pub and Parry looked around. He noticed there were no obese people. No health hounds either. He would have to ask Sarah about that.

There were more colored and fewer white people than he was accustomed to. Something he’d noticed in his extended family.

“In the year 2100 orientation, my sons told me that the continental borders had been opened but at the time didn’t how it would affect interracial relations. What happened?”

“It’s ongoing Gramps. Improved but still an issue. There was a great deal more intermarriage when the borders opened. But, parts of the population wanted to maintain racial and cultural diversity. Purely White pods have dwindled significantly, but still exist. The debate continues and governments are reluctant to step in as it impinges too much on individual human rights. Supposed race, mostly defined by skin color, is being redefined. As the lines are blurred, we hope, there is less emphasis on this aspect of our humanity. We’ll see.”

“But aren’t you diluting cultural diversity?”

“Gramps, it’s easier now with a more uniform economic system. Cultures can remain distinctive without prejudice, warfare, ostracization.”

“What about religion?”

Sarah replied. “You can worship whatever God you wish. But, God can’t interfere with politics. And, there are stiff penalties if you attempt to convert others. Our educational system teaches religious and cultural diversity along with science. But, at the end of the day, it’s the individual’s choice which God, if any, they worship.”

As Parry took a sip of his beer, thinking about all the hate and bloodshed race, religion, or simply being different, had created, he turned to the large screen that was streaming the latest news. Sea levels around the world were still rising and affecting coastal populations. He shook his head.

“I take it, Sarah, that we didn’t deal with our CO2 emissions fast enough.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, Gramps. At this rate we figure sea levels will continue to rise for another hundred years before things level out. Your generation may have prevented the next ice age though, even if it’s a long way off.”

A now guilty looking Parry asked, “But you can stop rising sea levels? Surely by now there are technologies to deal with this?”

“Like what, Gramps? How do you stop something so powerful, so enormous? By trying, we may do more damage than good. Like those health hounds.”

Parry had no answer for that. Sarah paused before continuing. “We have covered the remaining global ice packs with protective insulation, slowing down melting. We are desalinizing sea water and pumping it into world’s dried up lakes and aquifers. We could refill them and perhaps even develop more fresh water in some of our driest areas on earth to rejuvenate the land. Some day the Sahara Desert might be green again. That might reduce rising sea levels by half.” Sarah sighed and took a drink, watching the image of water lap up against some of the most beautiful cities in the world.

That evening Parry had dinner with his extended family. He saw no plastic or metal food containers only some sort of, presumably biodegradable, strange material. There was little leftover food. All leftover vegetable matter went into some sort of grinder and came out as a greenish-looking paste. He recalled that 8.8% of greenhouse gases were created by food waste and that rotting organic matter in landfills released deadly methane – twenty-eight times worse than CO2 emissions.

As Parry went to bed that night thinking, despite some of the still looming problems, this was a better world by far than the one he’d left. And finally, WE was defeating the problem of those slow swimmers. It had been a close race. The air pollution, lethal chemicals in plastics and the Covid pandemic, which all contributed to slow swimming human and dog sperm, were contained. For humans, and man’s best friend who shared his toxic environment, fertility levels had begun to rise.

Just before dozing off, Parry mumbled the words of a famous man, that reflected well this new world order and where it was trending.

“Our ability to reach unity in diversity will be the beauty and test of our civilization.”

Mahatma Gandhi

EndNote

Whether you like it, hate it, or fear it, it’s coming. Whether you think it will save the world. Or destroy us all, nanotechnology is upon us. And developing fast.

While this is a story of fiction, a lot of the technologies I write about here are almost a reality. In terms of becoming economically and practically feasible. Imagine a world where your very movements, or your car’s, which creates friction used to make enough electricity to supply our needs. Those nanotires in the story are a reality.

And those slow swimmers? Also a reality and a real concern among countries. Imagine the world’s populations plummeting. That would destroy entire economies. And perhaps even threaten the very survival of our species.

I entered this story in Fix. And so did 1,100 other writers. If you like science fiction and imagining a better world, here’s the link to the top 12 stories. https://grist.org/fix/series/imagine-2200-climate-fiction/

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SOME SCIENCE FICTION STORIES TO SHARE WITH YOU

Note: For a while now I’ve been dabbling in science fiction short stories. Recently I entered a few short-fiction story contests. I didn’t win anything, nor did I expect too. One of the contests attracted 1,100 entries. And had prizes. So, they probably attracted some serious writers.

Even though I didn’t win, the experience was fun and enlightening. There’s only one way to become a better writer. Read more. And write more. Work at your craft. For me, writing fiction is very different from writing technical archeological papers and reports. It’s been a learning process to write for a public audience.

And the topics for those contest were inspiring too. Both contests challenged us to write about a futuristic world. As it might appear in the year, 2,200 (Grist Magazine). The other competition, in ‘Sapiens Plurum’ (wisdom of many), and the stories to be published in Fix, asked us to create a story where we were more in harmony with our world – our environment, the creatures that live in it, and others around us.

Over the coming weeks, I’ll share these stories with you. Here’s how I imagine us living in a better, more harmonious world.

Here’s the first one then. Submitted to Sapiens Plurum, May, 2021:

A TIME WHEN THE TREES RAN FOR THEIR LIVES

A Time 6,000 Years Ago

The old man and his grandson stood at the south edge of their dying northern forest. Before them rose one brave majestic spruce tree, well over 200 years old. Now brown and loosing its needles. Struggling to survive. And not another tree in sight.

The wizened old man looked down at his grandson. “Let me tell you a story, young one. When I was your age, long, long ago, I stood on this same spot amongst towering, majestic evergreens. This place, and even farther south, was all lush, green forest, inhabited by many animals.”

“But, what does it mean grandfather? We are a forest people. Are we losing our homes, our way of life?” Turok now looked somewhat anxious. Was his home threatened?

The old man gazed at the forlorn-looking tree struggling to survive. Soon the fires would take it if the heat and dryness failed to. “It means my child, that the trees are running away. To a new place if they are to survive. If we are to survive, we must follow them.”

An inquisitive Turok wondered about grandfather’s words. He pondered whether it had happened before or would again.

2015: Oslo, Norway

Two young men and a woman sat in the conference hotel lounge, trying to enjoy a drink after the day’s sessions on climate change. All were brilliant in their fields of genetic engineering, forest ecology, international law and diplomacy. What they’d heard was hardly surprising but still jarring and sobering: global warming was raising hell with everything including the one thing they all had an interest in – the health of the boreal forests of the world. The news wasn’t good. The boreal forests of the world were dying.

The Scandinavian lawyer/diplomat, Karst Olsen, spoke first. “What a bloody mess. If people only knew the half of it. As temperatures continue to rise, and the boreal forests continue to decline, to burn and release their vast carbon stores into the atmosphere, even greater temperature increases will be triggered. If I heard right, no matter what we do, we can no longer stop it from happening.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Olsen was a rare political bird. He listened to scientists, considered the ethical and legal implications of their work, then relayed their information to the rest of the political community. But getting them to act on it was a job that would thin even the thickest head of hair in a short period of time.

The Russian plant geneticist and engineer, Dmitri Yashin, leaned forward and in a heavy accent added. “Does world not understand anything? Including my government? They think the Siberian taiga is just for logging and mineral extraction. I agree, Karst, it is a catastrophe waiting to happen. Our northern forests are dying and the animals with them. They represent thirty percent of all forests in the world. Even if we stop the warming, now, it is too late. We cannot stop this. I have some ideas, but no one listens.” The Russian shook his black head of hair already showing white streaks.

Throughout the conversation, the Canadian palaeoecologist, Susan Brock, who also specialized in microbiotics, remained quiet, listening intently to her two colleagues. She had never met these men before but knew their reputation. She had asked if they would join her for a drink to hear their thoughts. Now the others looked at her intently, expecting to hear a reason for the meeting.

“Gentlemen, as you both point out the news isn’t good. But I have more.”

Dmitri interrupted, “Any good news, Dr. Brock, please. I don’t feel so good after that session.” Dmitri, however, was feeling better by looking into the eyes of the striking woman before him, unconsciously stroking his hair to ensure it was neatly in place.

“Well, Dmitri, the good news is that the boreal forest isn’t really dying. It is moving north as our climate warms to cooler places to survive.”

“That is good news, Susan. So, it will get bigger then?” Karst too was liking what he heard.

Susan responded, “No, it doesn’t work like that. The southern edge is dying, and the northern edge is expanding.”

“So, then in the future, it will be the same, or maybe even bigger,” suggested Karst.

“No. And here comes the bad news. The world’s major vegetation zones, including the boreal forest, have moved before. The dying parts of the boreal forest will release massive amounts of trapped carbon into the atmosphere. The 2017 summer fires in British Columbia, Canada that released 190 million tonnes of green house gases into the atmosphere will pale in comparison.”

“So, why not just focus on technology to directly remove CO2 from the air to solve problem?” Dmitri’s scientific interest perked up. He liked solving problems. Especially if he could solve them with Susan.

“Too costly, and not nearly efficient enough.” Susan stopped and took a drink, bracing herself to explain what would come next. It wasn’t good.

“In the past forests moved and adapted as climate slowly changed. This change is too fast. Our forests can’t adapt fast enough. Secondly, remember where the forest is heading. To the Canadian Shield in North America and similar terrain in your country, Dmitri. Solid bedrock. Big trees don’t grow so well on solid rock.” She now had the men’s full attention, as they began to understand what the world was facing.

“So why have you summoned us, Dr. Brock?” Karst asked but was beginning to join the dots.

“Because I think if the three of us work together, there might be a way out.” As she said these words, she casually gazed over at the people assembled in the lounge.

“Deutsch bitte, meine Herren.” And then she related her plans in fluent German to the two startled men on what was needed over the next five years. And what would be expected of them. At first there were confused looks, then a dawning understanding, followed by mischievous grins. Dr. Susan Brock picked up her laptop, leaving two other identical ones with further instructions for her colleagues, and walked out of the lounge.

Ottawa, Canada

Colonel Strange, Canadian Secret Service, glared at the man in front of him describing the meeting between the three scientists in Oslo a few days ago.

“What do you mean you couldn’t understand the last part of the conversation?”

“Sir, Dr. Brock was speaking English, and I could clearly hear everything. Then suddenly she switched to German. I don’t understand German.”

A now somewhat enraged Strange shouted. “You at least recorded it, right?”

“No, Sir. I didn’t have time. Or the equipment.”

“Bloody fool. That woman wasn’t just having a drink and picking up men. She’s one of our top scientists in microbiotics. Dangerous stuff, I’m told. We need to keep an eye on her. Sharing information with those two. How dare she without first coming to us. They’re up to something. I know it. I feel it.” Finally Strange looked at the agent and waved his hand. “Dismissed.”

Moscow, Russia

In Moscow, a similar conversation was going on between Lieutenant Korlekov and his agent who reported the same thing about Yashin’s meeting. There was considerable shouting, fist banging and finally stomping feet as the agent fled from his superior’s curses.

Both Strange and Korlekov sat in their respective offices trying to make sense of the meeting. Brock was the ringleader. Whatever they were up to might have international implications that could affect both countries. Strange was tempted just to arrest Brock and throw her in the slammer. And then ask some tough questions. Not very Canadian-like but this was serious business. Korlekov was thinking the same thing. Both men, however, knew, given who they were dealing with, that was impossible.

But before they could do anything, both Brock and Yashin mysteriously disappeared. Just vanished. At that news, a bead of sweat broke out on the men’s faces as they reached for the desk drawer for a much needed drink. Their disappearance would not be easy to explain to their superiors.

2020:  A Small Swedish Community, on the Northern Edge of the Taiga 

They sat around the kitchen table sipping their drinks. Much like their first meeting in Oslo. Talking about the forest’s problems and their project. But many things had changed. Brock and Yashin, working so closely together, had become husband and wife, sharing a passion for their work and each other. And they were no longer just worrying about the forests’ problems. They were trying to solve them.

Finally, Karst spoke. “After reading of your progress, I thought I’d drop by and have a few words.”

“A few words, Karst? How can there only be a few words from a lawyer? Are there issues?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Your sudden disappearances caused a lot of friction between your countries. CSIS is accusing Russia of kidnapping you, Dr. Brock, to gain insights into your work on microbiotics. And the Russians are accusing the Canadians of whisking away Dr. Yashin for his work in biological genetic engineering. No one in either country, however, has yet added two and two together. They never will because they don’t see the need for cooperation and teamwork.  And that some problems of the world require them, at a high level.” Olsen, automatically reached to run his hands through his hair, apparently not realizing he had none.

“But no one knows, Karst? How we pulled that off? Given who we are?” A now almost white-haired Dmitri was surprised at that. He shook his head. Brock’s plan had been brilliant. But she never told him where it came from and who had orchestrated it. He never asked. Perhaps someday the truth would come out. Now there still were more important things to consider.

Olsen, leaned over the table and in a hushed voice, added. “There’s more, as I’m sure you both heard on the news. Both your fields are closely being scrutinized by the media.”

“I know, I know. Fiddling with nature and turning little robots loose is causing a bit of a shitstorm. Especially among certain political elements of the planet.” Brock knew long ago that this day would come. A day when the big question had to be asked: What are acceptable trade-offs in saving the planet? “We’re past the point of petty ethics, religion, and legalities, Karst. They won’t matter if the whole planet dies. And every living thing on it.”

“I know, Susan. I know. I’ve been making the same arguments to our leaders, but to no avail. They argue this type of research is unethical. Not right, not natural.”

“Hypocrites! All of them. We’ve been fiddling with nature for thousands of years. On all continents, even Antarctica, with the animals and plants, even the ground. We’ve created many synthetic products that are crippling our environment. How is that natural? This is one step further on a scale unimaginable but necessary. If we lose these forests, we’re doomed.”

Dmitri was about to say more when Susan broke in. “Let’s give them a gift. As soon as there’s some economic and political benefit from our work, they’ll shut up real fast. And go on their hypocritical ways.”

“What sort of gift, Susan?”

Susan stood and motioned Karst to follow her. Out in the back yard overlooking fields, Susan pointed to a new crop of what looked like wheat, just coming up. “We’ve had some unexpected results from our research that will benefit more than just the forests. Take these seeds back and let the politicians give them to the farmers. That’ll put smiles on everyone’s faces.”

“But what are these, Susan?”

“Ask Dmitri. It’s his brainchild.” Karst turned to Dmitri, but before he could ask, Susan motioned toward a stand of trees.

“And, Karst, how do like our new trees, and my new organic mat?” At first Karst just stared, speechless as he slowly realized what he was seeing.

After Susan and Dmitri explained their research, Karst could only gasp. He whispered over and over, almost weeping. “This is incredible. Just incredible. Unbelievable. The trees will be able to run north faster now.” Then they went back into the house to have a few more drinks, and settle poor Karst down, who was still mumbling, “Unbelievable, incredible. How did you do it….?”

2050: The Boreal Forest, North West Territories, Canada

The two old men sat on the bench overlooking the little lake surrounded by beautiful forest. Taking in the smells of rich pine and spruce needles, listening to the birds and distant howling of a wolf pack on the hunt.

“Tell me, Alexei, did you ever have doubts on what we were doing? I mean as the leader of Russia then, you were taking a tremendous risk. Not only at home, but abroad. If you were wrong, the world could have turned against you. Your people would have strung you up.”

Alexei Yashin turned to the once Canadian prime minister. “No Gerald. No doubts. Who could have? There were no other solutions. I had faith in what we were doing together. But that young Olsen really convinced me. He has a brilliant legal mind, and he knew how to push the right buttons.”

Gerald Brock nodded, feeling much the same way. Undoubtedly, the two scientists were brilliant in their solution to save the northern forests. But for their brilliance to come to fruition, it took world-wide international cooperation. At the very highest levels.

Alexei stared into the forest, still somewhat shocked by how this had all come about. “Gerald, we couldn’t tell anyone. Too many cooks in the kitchen usually spoil the dinner. There was too much at stake for that to happen.”

“I guess you’re right. We did share a bit at least. The grain that Dmitri gene-engineered tipped the scales. It satisfied a lot of people because of its faster growth and higher yield. It was like manna sent from the heavens. Abruptly, genetic engineering was no longer a problem. Hypocrites.”

“I wonder if they suspect the truth, Gerald, about what else it does. I haven’t said a word. Have you?”

“No. Why bother. They didn’t care about CO2 emissions then, so why would they care if that strain of wheat sucked up five times more CO2 than other strains. And, certainly balanced out the CO2 emissions the dying forests were giving off.”

Unexpectedly, Alexei stood up and started jumping up and down on the ground. Secret Service men suddenly appeared out of the trees, but he waved them off. “Seems solid enough, Gerald. I still don’t know how she managed this.” He stared at what seemingly looked like a normal forest floor. And then jumped on it one more time for good measure.

“She’s a marvel in microbiotics, Alexei. Your Dmitri did well designing those conifer and poplar trees that could grow three times faster and suck up five times more CO2 than the normal boreal forest conifers.”

“Yes, he’s a genius. But, without this mat, those trees could not have grown on the bedrock as the forests moved north. This beneath me is true genius.”

“At first I didn’t believe her when she explained it to me. How could you develop an organic layer, essentially soil, over the top of bedrock, so those trees could grow further north?”

“So, what convinced you?”

“She invited me out to the cottage near the northern edge of the forest. She laid down an organic mat. Then told me to measure its width and thickness. I did. Exactly a metre wide, twenty centimetres thick, and one-hundred metres long. When we came back twenty-four hours later, I measured the mat again. It was ten centimetres wider and two centimetres thicker.”

“At first I thought it was some sort of trick. I had to be sure. So, I camped out all night and took measurements every three hours. Took a lot of good scotch to get that done.”

“She was right, wasn’t she? Or, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Yes, she was right. That bloody mat was growing, with the help of those little bots in there. It was producing soil for those trees to grow in. But even more incredible, it was chewing up about thirty centimetres of bedrock beneath it.”

“But you worried, right, Gerald? Like I did with Dmitri’s genetic engineering. If we let the genie out of the bottle, would we ever control it?”

“Yes. I worried a lot about how to control it.”

“And that was her brilliance as well. This mat was laid down ten years ago. It’s alive but the little bots are dead. They were xenobots, biological robots, with a certain life-span. They did their work, and then were gone. That convinced you, right?”

“Right. We were out of time, and out of solutions.”

The two old men gazed over the lake, lost in their thoughts. Thinking about what might not have been. Perhaps there was a divine being who put all this in place. Suddenly their grandchildren and great grandchildren burst from the forest, followed by Susan and Dmitri. Everyone was flush with the excitement of exploring the forest trails and searching for rare mushrooms for dinner.

Alexei and Gerald looked up and smiled as their family milled around them. They acknowledged their two children. “Finally made it back, did you? We were worried the wolves and bears got you. We were just talking about you…..”

A Time 400 Years Later

The old woman stood with her granddaughter at the edge of the northern forest. Both looked at the dying trees. The trees were no longer able to deal with the harsher winters as the Earth cooled.

“What is happening, grandmother? Are they dying?”

“Yes, they are my child. And soon their kind will run south towards the sun that nourishes them.”

“Is it bad, grandmother? That they run?”

“No, it’s the way of Nature. The trees know when to run. Sometimes we need to help them though.”

The young child wondered whether it had happened before or would ever again.

…………………………..

EndNote

I view our current global warming from a somewhat unique perspective. It’s happened before. In Alberta, for example, thousands of years ago, the prairies were in the Peace River Country as western Canada experienced hot, dry conditions.

However, unlike today, humans, as far as we know, had nothing to do with creating those warmer, drier conditions. We’ve created the problems but we’re struggling to find the will to slow down CO2 emissions, or the technology to allow our forests to adapt to increasing temperatures.

The fun part about fiction, is it lets you dream and imagine. Perhaps I’m being naive to think that countries can work together on issues of a global scale. Or, that there are ways we can counter what we have created. Nanotechnology, however, is not a dream. Nor are genetically engineered trees that can suck up more CO2 emissions. That is already in the works.

I’ll leave it at that. I’m an optimist. Whatever humans imagine they have often created. So maybe there’s hope for the mess we’re in.

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Posted on

COFFEE ROW IN A SMALL CANADIAN TOWN

Where do you go if you want to get to the heart of any small Canadian prairie town? Coffee Row is where it’s at.

A Small Town In Trouble

You can take the pulse of a town by the number and vintage of vehicles parked in front of the local restaurant. If coffee row is healthy, then so is the town.

They gathered at Frank’s restaurant across the street from the local Co-op grocery store. There was no set time. Just a steady stream of people all day long. Some even came twice a day, if gossip was brisk. Some came so often they had preassigned seats. No one sat in Jim’s place.

Coffee row was where people discussed and sorted out things. Exchanged information. Solved the world’s problems. Well, at least in the minds of those sitting there.

Frank, owner of the small prairie restaurant, slowly glided around serving coffee, saying little. What was there to say? No one ever asked him what he thought.

Stan, Erna, Jim, Mary, Sarah and Bill were already there. Slowly drinking their coffee, as if they had all the time in the world. But this morning they had troubled looks on their faces, gazing at the scene across the street.

Erna finally spoke up. “Well, I’ll be darned. Shame that Jackson’s hardware is shutting down. That was a good business once. Bought all my stuff there. I don’t know what ever happened to the place.”

Bill thought he knew. “Old man Jackson was a good businessman. His kid ran it into the ground. Everyone supported the store. Where did the money go?”

Mary, sitting beside Bill, knew better. “I don’t buy that, Bill. The kid parties a little. A lot less than your kid.” This got a rise out of Bill. And a snicker or two from coffee row.

She went on. “But he’s not showy, spending all his money on toys. Fact of the matter is people are shopping more in the big cities. And slowly leaving our town, Bill. Nothing to do. No work here.”

Bill, now a little huffy after Mary’s comment, shot back. “We should do something about it, instead of just sitting here drinking our coffee.”

“And what are we going to do, Bill? Strike a committee? Maybe order people not to leave town, or go to the city to shop? You got a plan, buddy? Let’s hear it.”

Bill was silent. He had no plan. No one did. Instead, he turned and watched intently as the Jackson kid cleaned out the store and boarded up the front windows. Was this a sign of rot and gloom setting into their small town?

Sarah was beginning to tear up. “Fifty years and suddenly it’s all gone. Who’s next? When’s the bleeding going to stop?” Everyone looked on in silence as the kid continued to board up a lifetime of work and memories. Usually coffee row could solve the hardest problems. But this was a tough one.

Frank glided down coffee row behind a now solemn looking bunch on coffee row. “More coffee anyone. Made fresh pot just a few minutes ago. Maybe some fresh apple pie?”

Everyone absently nodded for a refill. As if Frank didn’t exist. Some ordered pie. Heck, no sense leaving now. There was still the weather and politics to sort out. And then the Thornton girl’s unwanted pregnancy, the local hockey team’s recent poor play, and Harry’s drinking problem. The list was long this morning.

Then Harry came in. Looking slightly tired and smelling of gin. Well, stroke Harry off today’s agenda. There was still lots to talk about though.

Talking about these matters could take time. A person might even have to stay for lunch if Frank offered one of his specials. Often coffee row turned into lunch row.

Across the street the young boy watched his father board up their store. He was crying, not letting his mother console him. Young Everett loved the store. The town. His friends. He didn’t want to leave. So, he screamed even louder. Hoping to convince mom and dad to stay. It didn’t help.

A Big Gamble

They were older now. And professing to be wiser. They sat in silence on coffee row. Slowly stirring their coffee. Hoping that with enough stirring, things would improve. Staring out the window at the boarded up Jackson’s store. Over the years a few other businesses had joined Jackson’s fate. Jim noticed a few weeds growing out of the town pavement.

Jim spoke first. As he looked over at the Jackson building, he slowly shook his head. “Jeez, Jackson’s closing was bad enough. But this? This is a hopeless disaster. What’s the town going to do now?”

“You mean what are WE going to do, Jim? It’s OUR bloody town.” Mary felt a slight headache coming on. Sometimes it was hard to listen to this pain in the ass sitting across from her.

“Don’t get me involved in this. I don’t live in town. I farm.”

“Farm. Ha!,” snorted Sarah. “You call that farming? You’re in town more often than on the farm, Jim. I don’t know who farms out there. But it’s sure not you.”

Jim said nothing. They had no idea how hard it was to farm. Occasionally he needed a break. To get away from it all.

Frank, a fresh white apron wrapped around him, jumped in. “More coffee anyone? Trying out new brand. Nice aroma, very tasty.” Hopefully more coffee would stop a fight from breaking out. Coffee row occasionally became a testy place. Tempers flared. Solving other peoples’ problems did that to a person.

Just about everybody ignored him. The tension grew. Frank worried. He tried his last and best gambit. “Today’s lunch special, everyone. My specialty, Chop Suey. All fresh. Very tasty. Only five-ninety-five, with dessert.” This usually calmed them down. Today it had no effect whatsoever. Frank worried even more.

“I heard the town invested over a hundred grand in infrastructure, hoping the Company workers would live here. But they didn’t come. Everyone from the new mill settled up the road in Morton instead. Kind of stupid. A much further commute to work than if they lived here.”

“I didn’t know the town had a hundred grand.”

“Well, where do you think our taxes go, Sarah? Of course the town has a hundred grand. We’re not dead yet.” Then they all looked out across the street at the boarded up store-fronts. Wondering about the truth of those words.

“But, how could our town council be so naive? To even think that was a good idea? Morton’s bigger. It even has a Tim Horton’s. Hard to compete with that.” Jim, now sounded as if he were living in town again. This gained him a few haughty looks.

And a chewing-out. Sarah had enough. “First of all, Jim. It’s not your town council. You live on the farm. You really got no say in this matter. This is town peoples’ business. Don’t you have some cattle to feed? Crops to harvest? That sort of stuff.”

Jim stood up in a huff and flung his quarters onto the table. And left quickly. Swearing never to return. He would. They always did. Frank glided by and deftly picked up the coins. Dropping them safely into his big brass cash register till behind the counter. Smiling at everyone. As if nothing had happened.

“Well, I’ll tell you why the town got bamboozled and took that gamble. It’s our mayor and council. They don’t tell anyone what they’re up to. There’s no oversight. They’re desperate. The town’s hurting. Anything that comes along that sounds half good, they jump at it. That’s what happened.” Stan usually said little on coffee row. But, when he did, people listened. That’s what eight sections of farmland and money in the bank could buy you on coffee row. Respect. Lots of it.

And Stan, unlike Jim, now lived in town.

Just then, Randy, their mayor stepped through the restaurant door. He badly needed a pack of cigarettes to get him through the day. As he nervously looked around, he realized everyone on coffee row was staring at him. ‘Probably not the best time to stop at Frank’s,’ realized Randy a little too late.

“Morning everyone. How are we all this morning?” Silence greeted him. Randy put on his best smile as he looked down coffee row. What he saw wasn’t good. Randy didn’t take official polls in town. He just needed to stop at coffee row occasionally to see how his political future fared. This morning it looked very bleak. Hopeless in fact.

Frank got Randy his cigarettes and looked on. “Randy, maybe you stay for lunch. Nice special today. Chop Suey. And I think maybe a side of fried rice with it.” Randy paid for his cigarettes, mumbled something about not feeling that hungry, and quickly left.

The others on coffee row continued arguing about one of the biggest screw-ups the town had ever seen. Frank worried about Randy. He was trying to save the little town. Frank had watched the careers of many mayors over the years. Through the eyes and ears of coffee row. Coffee row was a finely tuned machine in predicting their political futures. It wasn’t just Frank’s rice that was frying. Randy’s political future was also taking a little heat.

Salvation

Virtually the same people sat on coffee row. But now, more stooped, older and white-haired. Canes rested by chairs. A wheel chair stood in the corner. A few regulars were missing. Maybe watching over coffee row from above. Or below. There were some new faces. That was promising.

They all stared across the street where a young man was working diligently taking the boards off the windows of the old Jackson Hardware Store. There was hammering and sawing and a bunch of other stuff going on inside. But no one knew what. And that wore on coffee row. Not knowing what was going on in town was the worst thing that could happen to a person on coffee row.

Sarah was itching to find out. If she could break this story there would be free coffee for her. She was first to arrive, so she got in the first question. “I heard he’s setting up some kind of video and gambling center. Is this another one of town council’s lame brain schemes at revitalizing our town?”

Sarah was an expert at getting people talking. Just ask a simple, even a dumb question that people could react to. She’d learned that from watching certain reporters on TV.

“Don’t know. But that guy looks familiar. Isn’t that the Jackson boy’s oldest son? Sure looks like it from here.” They all squinted harder through watery eyes and thick glasses.

“Well, he’s sure busy and it looks like he’s throwing a lot of money into that building. You must have made some money with that sale, Stan, after buying it years ago.”

“Yeh, that’s Jackson’s oldest. Don’t know what he’s doing back here. I made a bit of money off that sale. Enough to buy everyone coffee this morning.” They all thought this very good of Stan. Some were hoping Frank would have a lunch special today. Maybe Stan would spring for lunch too.

They all looked back out the window across the street. A sign was going up on the store front. In big bold letters it read: MUSTANG ENTERPRISES.

“What? He gonna sell horses? I don’t think that will get him very far.” Jim knew. He’d tried horses years ago on his farm. Fancy ones. Not mustangs. That didn’t work out too well. Jim never seemed to have enough time to properly train and work them.

The young man across the street stepped back and looked at his handiwork. Then he put down his hammer, took his son by the hand, and walked across the street to Frank’s restaurant.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed him across the street and through the restaurant door. Jackson’s father would never have come to coffee row. And, according to experts on coffee row, that was one of the problems. Maybe even why the business failed. You had to talk to people in the community. Get to know them. Especially those on coffee row.

As he stepped through the door, Everett looked around. Some things never changed. He still recognized a few faces. Now older with whiter hair, if they had any. But the alert, inquisitive eyes told him everything. They wanted to know what he was doing here. They could barely contain themselves.

“Morning everyone. Mind if I join you. Could use a little more caffeine this morning.” Without waiting for an answer Everett plunked himself down on a chair at the end of the table. His son sat down beside him.

His greetings were returned by a few polite, cautious responses. Couldn’t trust these outsiders anymore. Especially after that last town debacle. Frank glided up, coffee pot in hand. A little more stooped and not walking quite as smoothly as years ago.

“Coffee, Everett? And for the young guy? A coke maybe?”

“That’d be great, Fan. How’s your family, your wife, Feng?”

“Oh, everyone good, Everett. Children move away. Nothing here for them. Feng cook, still put up with me.”

There was shock and silence up and down coffee row. Fan? They all thought he was just Frank. Few bothered to find out his real name. And how did Fan know Jackson so well? It would be hard finding the answers on coffee row. Without Fan listening in. Well, maybe they could just ask him.

“Nice sign, Mr. Jackson. You now sell Mustang cars, right? You get me a bright yellow one. With big motor. I pay cash.” Everyone wondered how Fan could afford a fancy new car running a restaurant. The fact that he worked sixteen – eighteen hours a day hadn’t crossed their minds.

“No, Fan. I don’t sell real mustangs, or cars.” Jim the horse expert, and Bert, who owned a small car dealership, were relieved to hear that.

Mary couldn’t hold back any longer. She just had to know. “Well, if not cars or horses, what do you sell, or do, Mr. Jackson? What does that sign mean anyway?”

“You know what mustangs are, Mary. Wild, free and a bit of an independent bunch. They do as they please and make their own way in the world. That’s us.”

Everett was just about to continue when the mayor walked in. He quickly gazed around taking the pulse of the town down coffee row. Looked safe enough. So he sat down beside Everett.

“Morning everyone. Dad, how you keeping?” Stan just nodded and waved.

“So, how’s it going over there, Everett? Lot of banging and sawing. Where did you learn how to do that?”

Some of the members of coffee row looked concerned. Everett and the mayor knew one another? The newcomer seemed to know everyone. If he joined coffee row it could upset the delicate balance established over many years. He could be a real threat in the gossip department.

“Going well, Jason. Learned a little carpentry by renovating my house in the city. Only way to learn anything.”

Everyone on coffee row thought those words exceedingly wise. A few wished they’d learned that lesson long ago.

Everett idly scratched the back of his neck, as if something was irritating him. “That refit’s not my biggest problem, Jason. I need to hire three or four really good computer tech people and two secretaries. Seems to be a shortage of those around here.”

Stan, or Fan, overheard Jason. “Seriously, Everett? First son, Fook, looking around for different job. Want to get out of city. Too big, too expensive.”

“Actually, Fan, that might work. I remember Fook. What’s he do? I need one person specializing in computer machine and assembly languages. Another one in algorithmic languages. FORTRAN. ALGOL. C. I could use someone who knows BASIC, Pascal, Logo, or Hypertalk. Or someone with a background in C++ C# Ada, Java, Visual Basic or Python.”

Fan casually took in Everett’s words. The rest of coffee row only gaped. As if Fan and Everett had just invented some sort of new language? “I text him immediately and see what he specialize in.” Fan left in a hurry, forgetting the coffee pot on the table.

Everett looked around. There was silence on coffee row. No one knew what to say. Even Mary was afraid to ask again what Everett did.

“Well, time to go. Nothing ever got done sitting around here. Let me know if there are any town folks that might need jobs.” That was an understatement thought Mary. She’d help if only she knew what the jobs were for.

Everett was about to get up and leave when he thought of something else. “Oh, and we’re going to need houses. I saw a few boarded up driving around town. Anyone know who owns them?”

All eyes turned towards Stan. Some of them now not in a too friendly manner. Fully knowing that Stan bought those places almost for nothing years back. Another great real estate opportunity squandered.

Stan gave a nervous cough. “I could probably help you out, Mr. Jackson. Heard prices for housing were going up though in these little towns. Seems a lot of people are moving out of the city and need homes.”

“Now dad. Everett needs some houses for his people at a fair price. To get his business going.” Everyone on coffee row fully supported their mayor on this point, and gave Stan a withering look to show it.

“Well, got to get back to my coffee row.” Everett stood and poured his unfinished coffee into his thermos.

“But, this is coffee row, Mr. Jackson. You know of another one around here? You opening up a restaurant or something? Maybe one of those fancy internet cafes?” Fan, who rarely ever showed any emotion, now had a worried look on his face.

Everett only grinned. “I collect information. Just like you folks. My coffee row sits on six big computer screens, connected to the rest of the world. Last time I looked there were 22.5 million of us, sipping coffee, collecting and exchanging information. But the information we collect is valuable to the right people. We repackage and sell it.” Only stunned silence greeted his words. Had they known, they could have made millions off coffee row over the years. Even Jim would have fared better, than farming.

As Everett walked across the street he looked around the small town. There were fewer ‘For Sale’ signs and more ‘Sold’ signs on homes and businesses than when he first had checked it out. Always a good omen.

Even coffee row was recruiting, it seemed. And with a healthy coffee row there was always hope for a small town in Canada.

https://www.google.com/search?sxsrf=ALeKk03ckD6wRIvbZxX2lLhPfBmeTaQeYQ:1620237559689&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=images+small+town+restaurants+canada&client=firefox-b-d&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj4qsmhj7PwAhVDpZ4KHWO-A5oQ7Al6BAgEEFw&biw=1288&bih=722#imgrc=0DK-ymv3D2sLZM

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EndNote

I grew up around or in small towns on the Canadian prairies. As a grocery boy working part-time at the Co-op store through high school, right across from the local restaurant, I watched the proceedings at coffee row quite often. This is where people gathered to casually socialize, exchange information, or barbs, and just generally be part of the community. It was an important institution. And, not just in my home town. It was common across the Canadian prairies. And elsewhere too, I’m sure.

I also saw first-hand how small towns struggled to stay afloat. And how hard people worked to keep them going. But eventually over the years, ever so slowly, they dwindled away as more people left, businesses closed and infrastructure couldn’t keep up. One author in a recent magazine called this the Slow Burn.

In a recent article in Maclean’s Magazine (https://www.macleans.ca/killing-rural-canada/), that same author, journalist, Aaron Hutchins asked the big question: What’s Killing Rural Canada? There were multiple reasons. I touched on a few in this story. But there were few solutions on how to fix the problem.

I’m an optimist. Perhaps a bit of a dreamer. I don’t know if all small Canadian towns can be saved. Do we need one every eight or ten miles along a stretch of highway in rural Saskatchewan? Perhaps long ago we did. Even in the 1950s, when I first arrived in Canada, some of those towns were already struggling. But I think some might be saved. Computers and the internet are changing where many Canadians work or run a business. The pandemic has also helped the process along, as more people work from home.

Of course, this method doesn’t work for all businesses or industry. Virtual baking can’t replace the real thing.

“It’s not just families seeing the appeal either. Businesses, both startups and large organizations, are making the move (think Amazon considering Kitchener-Waterloo over Toronto’s downtown) for the same reason the average Joe is. Lower cost of operation, more room to grow.” https://www.empirecommunities.com/blog/rural-renaissance-how-a-new-generation-is-embracing-small-town-living/

In Alberta, the shift to smaller towns outside the large urban centers is underway. The recent Covid pandemic is partly responsible, as people try to isolate in the less densely populated rural communities. But there are other reasons as well:

“Another driving factor is that people can work from home since remote working is still being encouraged by many employers. Some businesses are offering more flexible working environments such as work from home at least a few days a week, with a requirement of going to the office occasionally. This allows home buyers considerably more flexibility when looking for a new home, no longer bound by the requirement of being in close proximity to the office. This explains the surge of families exploring quieter, more remote areas that traditionally only attracted retirees.” https://blog.remax.ca/canadian-real-estate-alberta-an-ideal-buyers-market/

On British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast, where I live part-time, the local real estate market in the community of Powell River is going bonkers. For many of the reasons listed above. Plus, a lot of baby boomers in the large urban centers are cashing in on their multi-million dollar properties in the city and moving where living is slower and cheaper.

“Grand totals show 40 units, valued at $13,572,800, sold in December 2020, compared to 25 units, valued at $8,872,700, in December 2019.” https://www.prpeak.com/real-estate-news/strong-real-estate-sales-continue-in-powell-river-3418406

No one currently knows where this will all end. But the signs are encouraging. So, maybe there’s still hope for that small town and coffee row in Canada. Or, perhaps I’m just dreaming and being overly optimistic. But, that’s usually what writing fiction is all about.

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Posted on

The Puck Stops Here: A Canadian Hockey Story

Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.
Stephen Leacock

Pregame: The Dressing Room

Harry Reed finally arrived at the rink. A little late. It was a dark, chilly, -25C Alberta night. As he stepped into the dressing room, he was greeted with loud cheers, jeers, and hellos. And the strong smell of sweaty equipment seldomly laundered.

The boys cheered loudest when they had a full dressing room. Didn’t have to work so hard in the game. ‘Things sure change,’ thought Harry. ‘Years ago we hoped three or four guys wouldn’t show up. So we could get more ice-time.’

Harry looked for a spot to park his gear in the aged rink’s crowded dressing room. Judging by its size it was built for a team of twelve-year olds, not fully grown men. Finally squeezing himself in between two players, he looked around as his white-haired teammates (at least those with hair) dressed for the game. He saw knee braces, thick black plastic Hanson-like glasses, and other protective gear in sight. A set of crutches stood in one corner. Harry wondered about that. A necessary precaution?

Unlike younger teams preparing for the game, talk focused on who did the stupidest thing the last time out. There were always plenty of fodder for that topic. Tonight discussion focused around Frank’s defense of the team’s name, arguing that he tried to stay sweat-free when playing. This got a round of applause and some cheers from his teammates, the NeverSweats.

Finally, donning their jerseys with the team logo, NEVERSWEATS etched on them in big blue letters, their goalie, Howie, led the team onto the ice. Ready to do battle. Some, more with their own physical shortcomings than with the opposition.

First Period: A Slow Start

Harry and his line mates sat on the bench looking despondently on as the other team rushed down the ice, into their end, and put another puck past their goalie. Four goals in five shots. Looked like Howie was ‘fighting it’ again tonight. Whatever ‘it’ was. Right now Howie couldn’t stop a beach ball.

Someone on the bench mumbled the S***e-word, a good hundred feet from where Howie stood in net. A word you never said in the presence of a goalie. Howie suddenly looked at his bench, yelling. “I heard that, dammit. One of you jokers want to play in net?”

Of course none of the jokers on the bench responded. Why would anyone want to throw themselves in front of a hard, fast-moving missile that could hurt you? That just seemed counterintuitive to survival.

Everyone wondered though how a goalie, supposedly hard of hearing, picked up certain words about his goal-tending prowess, at that distance. Theories abounded. The man could read lips. He had the bench wired and was listening in. He wasn’t really deaf at all.

“Come on, boys, pick it up,” shouted Coach Larry. “They’re beating us to the puck.”

‘Pick it up, boys. Pick it up,’ thought Harry. He looked over at his center man, Big Dale. They both shared that knowing look. ‘Pick it up boys, pick it up.’ Their coach, whom they lovingly had dubbed, ‘Captain Obvious’ was living up to his name. If there was anything left to pick up they would have done so. Even at this age, losing wasn’t fun.

The half-dozen fans in the rink were also shouting, ‘Pick it up, boys.’ Obviously Larry’s relatives were in attendance.

As the first period ended, the score was four-nothing for the visitors. Harry wished Roger Neilson was coaching. By now he would have put a white towel on the end of a hockey stick, raised it, and waved in surrender. Harry looked around and noticed those towels neatly stacked behind Coach Larry, who it seemed, recalled a similar incident a half-dozen games ago. Well, that’s what coaches were for – to keep the troops in line and fighting.

https://theprovince.com/sports/hockey/nhl/vancouver-canucks/its-the-35th-anniversary-of-roger-neilson-waving-his-white-towel

First Intermission – And Relief

The players sat in the dressing room, backs slouched up against the wall, half listening to Coach Larry. Some of the players were already eyeing the beer cooler. But Coach would have none of it, deliberately sitting on it.

“Now, boys, I saw a bit of sloppy play out there. Clean it up and a little more back-checking and we’re right back in it.” Coach suddenly stopped talking and looked around. A squabble in the corner had broken out where a beach ball mysteriously appeared and was being thrown at Howie.

The rest of the team were politely nodding at Coach Larry’s sage advice, trying to avoid Howie’s glares, knowing full well that wasn’t going to happen. But Coach meant well. He became coach not because of his great insights into the game of hockey. As his last comment had just demonstrated. He often bought the team a round of beer after the game. Coaches like that were hard to find.

Plus, the boys felt bad for Coach Larry, perhaps also thinking about their own rather fragile invincibility. After blowing his knee out Coach couldn’t play anymore. He missed the boys, the camaraderie, and needed to be around the rink to stay happy.

Coach Larry, now standing but still keeping one foot firmly planted on the beer cooler, exclaimed. “And another thing boys. Stop Malone. He’s killing us. Slow him down, get in his way. Dan, whisper in his ear how you’re going to get him. You’re good at that sort of thing.

Harry looked at Dan and rolled his eyes. Dan was good at that sort of thing. Like a loose cannon out there running into everything that moved. Including his teammates. It didn’t matter.

“But coach, I can’t whisper in his ear. I can’t get near him. He’s too bloody fast. I could maybe yell at him to slow down. Or bribe him with a beer. I mean the guy had a tryout with the Oilers.”

The rest of the team nodded. Malone was hopeless. And with Howie in net. Well, the score could get really ugly.

The whistle finally blew to start of the second period. Everyone put away their smelling salts, re-taped their wobbly knees, and rubbed ointment on their already aching bodies. Thankfully now the smell of ointment, instead of smelly equipment, pervaded the room. Time to stop Malone. At least yell at him to slow down.

Coach left the room last to make sure nobody got into the beer on the way out.

Second Period: Overcoming Adversity

As Harry stepped onto the ice for his warm-up skate, there was a roar of laughter behind him. He looked back to see his defenceman, Tim, lying on the ice. Most of his teammates were bent over the boards howling with laughter. The four remaining fans were also having a good laugh.

Coach Larry looked on with feigned concern. The boys weren’t taking the game too seriously. Always a bad sign. Meanwhile, Tim was still on the ice, struggling to get up until someone suggested he take his skate guards off first.

The other team now watching, all slapped their sticks on the ice in appreciation as Tim finally stood. The sportsmanship displayed at these games was often inspiring. Especially when the other team’s foolishness threatened the integrity of the game.

The second period started much like the first. Malone was tearing the ice up. And Howie was still having trouble seeing the puck. Mumbling and complaining bitterly about the lights and shadows. No one said anything. If Howie saw shadows, so be it.

“Jeez, it’s f*****g cold in this rink. What’s the temperature do you think, Harry?”

“Well, Gerry, if it’s -25C outside, then I figure it’s about -27C inside. I don’t know their secret but they seem to be able to keep it colder inside than outside.” Right above the team bench hung a line of gas heaters. But these were never turned on for Beer League hockey.

The boys laughed at that one. This started stories about playing in cold weather. Harry remembered one time in Swift Current. “We were about ten years old and playing on an outdoor rink in January. It was hellish cold. There was a stiff breeze making little snowdrifts on the ice. Occasionally we had to stop play to remove them. Our feet were froze solid by the end of the first period. After the game the moms and dads of eleven screaming kids were carefully trying to pry their skates off.”

“Are you guys going to play hockey or jabber?,” barked Larry. “Keep it up and you’ll miss your shift.”

“Personally, I’d like to just sit and jabber the way this game’s going,” whispered Harry to Big Dale.

“I heard that,” yelled Larry. Pick it up, boys, pick it up.” Larry’s hearing seemed as acute as Howie’s.

Then the NeverSweats got their first break of the game. Dan managed to somehow bump into Malone as he was careening down the ice. It really was an accident of sorts. Trying desperately to stick-check the speedster, Dan did a toe pick, followed by a rather awkward pirouette, crashing into Malone, sending him flying into the boards. Dan was ejected from the game. Malone never returned.

With Malone gone the momentum of the game changed. The NeverSweats picked it up. And Howie suddenly regained his vision. The puck now looked as big as a beach ball. He stopped everything. That little training session during the last intermission had kicked in.

Near the end of the period, Don had a breakaway. He rushed toward the opposition goalie, head down all the way, and let fly. Never once looking at the net, or where he was shooting. He focused only on not losing the puck off his stick. That would have brought a hail of laughter from the bench.

The puck hit the motionless goalie square in the logo. Don cursed, but ever the sportsman, slapped the goalie on the pads after, what seemed to him, a great save. Laughter burst out from both benches.

The referee blew his whistle to end the second period. The NeverSweats had closed the gap to within one goal.

No Second Intermission: The Beer is Safe

There was no regular second intermission. Just a short break. The remaining fans had seen enough and had gone home. The ice was still pretty clean and didn’t require a flood. As fatigue set in sudden stops and starts diminished. Instead, the players used long gliding turns to change direction. Creating little snow on the ice.

During the break the referee disappeared into his small dressing room.

“What the hell does he do in there every break? Weak bladder, or what?” The team had their suspicions, but no one said anything. It seemed though, as the game progressed, the referee’s vision was becoming a lot like Howie’s. But, getting a regular referee was almost harder than finding a goalie. Even one who couldn’t always see well.

Big Dale, Harry’s center, was leaning over the boards urging the boys on. Now mouthing Coach’s words,”Come on guys, if we pick it up a bit, we can beat these guys.”

Everyone went through the motions of buying in. Even though most minds were already on the ice-cold beer in the dressing room.

Then John, standing beside Big Dale, bent over and closely examined his gloves. “Heh, big guy, where did you get those gems? Museum? Are they hockey gloves or jousting gauntlets? They nearly cover your elbows. I mean, who even sells those things anymore? They look like they’re right out of the fifties or sixties.” The others now looked on, chuckling.

“I get them where I buy all my equipment. At the local Sally Ann thrift store. Fifteen bucks. You can’t beat that.”

“Well, Dale, they certainly blend in nicely with that trendy Jofa helmet and that straight-lasted wood stick. Do you get your sticks custom-made? Who still sells wood straight-lasted sticks?”

More chuckling. Dale was forever stuck in the 60’s. He would remain there until the day he died. Once they quit making straight-lasted sticks, Dale would retire from hockey.

Finally the referee appeared, a big smile on his face, and blew his whistle to start the third period.

Before starting, Coach Larry had a few parting words for his troops. “Let’s see if we can break out of our own end a little cleaner, boys. One time we couldn’t get out for two shifts.

Martin, the team wise-ass (at least for this game), put Coach’s mind at ease. “That’s a set play, Coach. It’s a trap of sorts. Lots of teams we play fall into it. We trap them in our end, and don’t let them out, until their arms and legs get weary. Then we break out. Or when they score. Whichever comes first.” The others thought this an exceedingly clever cover-up for having no plan whatsoever on how to get out of their end.

Third Period: The Comeback?

The referee dropped the puck and surprisingly play picked up. A sort of Old-timer urgency had set into the game. There were actually some stops and starts again. Plumes of frozen breath shot into the air as players battled for the puck. And low and behold! Sweat broke out among the ranks of the NeverSweats. This rarely happened, especially on a cold winter night in the Ice Palace.

The other team was feeling it too. During the brief intermission some players went to their dressing room to don more clothing. Or so it appeared.

Harry and his line mates looked on as the Rusty Nuts looked rustier by the minute. “Remember that time, boys, when we played at the Mall rink. It was -35C outside so we put on extra layers of underwear for the game.”

“Ya, I remember that one,” said Big Dale. “Nearly died of heat exhaustion by the second period. That was a real weapon that team had. Nothing like this Ice Palace.”

“More like a Sweat Palace. And the worst ice in the City. And the costliest from what I heard. It was like skating in putty. And the space behind the net was narrower than in other rinks. I remember when I first played there, watching the beauty of my pass one time, and running into the back boards cracking three ribs.”

Coach Larry shouted, “Next line. Come on boys, get out there and score.” As if anyone on this team could score at will.

“His memory is sure short,” whispered Dale. “Is that what happens when you quit playing and start coaching? You get a memory transplant. They replace the ‘player’ chip with a ‘coaching’ chip?” Dale stopped talking when he saw Coach giving him a steely stare.

Big Dale won the face-off in their end. Back to his defenceman and then over to Harry. Harry deftly chipped it up the boards to an already breaking Dale. Dale, now one-on-one with the D-man, made his custom power swoop beating him cleanly. As he moved towards the goalie he did some little thing with his stick and wrists, putting the puck over the goalie’s shoulder into the net. Harry vaguely remembered having to do something similar with his straight-lasted stick years ago to raise the puck. He didn’t remember exactly what it was anymore. Dale could score with that stick.

4-4. The only cheering Dale heard was from the players on his bench. The rest of the rink was silent except for the Zamboni getting ready to flood the ice. Two minutes left. Could the NeverSweats hang on? Maybe even win?

Sitting on the bench, Harry overheard his second line talking strategy. There seemed to be some disagreement on how to generate more offense in the other team’s end. Eric, their center man was explaining attacking tactics to his teammates, “I said dump-and-chase, guys. Not dump-and-watch. We need to pressure them in their end more.”

His winger, Trevor, responded, “Well, we’re kinda playing the neutral zone trap by staying high. Don’t want to get caught too deep in their end.” A now exasperated Eric said nothing. There was no use.

The boys were tiring. “Hurry, get up, Al. Get in the box. We’ve got too many men on the ice.” A tired Al had fallen near the team bench and was desperately trying to get off the ice. Just as he got up, a line mate bumped him and down he went again. As he tried the second time, he stepped on his stick and went down once more. Finally, a now exhausted, desperate Al gave up and just crawled the rest of the way into the team bench. There were howls of laughter from both sides. The referee looked the other way, letting the play go on.

Now with only thirty seconds left in the game, Len, their best D-man decided take matters into his own hands to get out of his end. His forwards had the offensive trap play firmly working in their end. He was making another move around an opponent, between his blue line and the center line, when a Rusty Nut stripped him off the puck and went in on Howie for a breakaway.

Players on both benches stood up and watched, holding their breaths. After a few deft moves, cleanly beating Howie, the player shot the puck at an open-looking net. Howie, however, had lost his balance and now went into to his last-effort Dominique Hashik move. Falling backwards into the net, his glove hand shot out, somehow catching the puck.

https://www.google.com/search?q=domonique+hashik&client=firefox-b-d&sxsrf=ALeKk00z7aATJcHRE8FL1FCZOo1XrcqaTQ:1619184660681&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=yOf93VStuHTY4M%252CRPVIfOom5dMCfM%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kSoPOG_lrlKISpgqrhcRj52MsxBtw&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwje3Zn0vJTwAhUJgp4KHUBZDTgQ9QF6BAgSEAE&biw=1279&bih=667#imgrc=yOf93VStuHTY4M&imgdii=qjJ6hOr3sQ6KTM

The referee blew his whistle. The game was over.

Howie was mobbed by his teammates, congratulating him on the incredible save. With time it would become the best save ever made in the minds of the guys watching. Soon to join Old Timers hockey lore.

As the teams were shaking hands, a few of the Rusty Nuts mumbled something about ‘fluky goalie’ just as Howie was about to step off the ice. “I heard that. Nothing fluky about it.”

Harry bent towards one of the Rusty Nut players. “How’s your goalie’s hearing….”

The ‘After-Flow’

There was lots of shouting and backslapping in the dressing room. You’d thought the boys actually won the game. Or the Stanley Cup. The beer was flowing freely and and stories began, breaking down the game. Trying to recreate and suck out every enjoyable minute from it. The bad parts were already forgotten.

It usually took longer to get out of the dressing room than to play the game. This became somewhat problematic if you played at seven AM on a Sunday morning. And started drinking beer at eight-thirty. Fortunately the NeverSweats had an evening ice-time. But it still needed to be carefully explained to wives and girlfriends that the post-game decompression ritual was an absolute necessity in hockey. It took hours to re-hydrate and return to normal after a strenuous workout like that.

Harry was sitting in the corner, Big Dale beside him, listening to the stories. And watching the new player, Norm, sitting off in the other corner, by himself. “Has he ‘thawed out’ yet?,” asked Harry, nodding towards Norm.

“Don’t know, Harry. Was he frozen?”

“Don’t be so thick, Dale. You know what I mean.”

“There’s hope. He’s still in a bit of shock. Leaving his former younger team, and walking into a dressing room looking more like an old folks home. I was. He’s not fighting it like some guys who think they can still make the NHL. It takes time.”

Suddenly one of the players got up, raising his beer towards Norm in the corner. “Here’s to Norm, guys. Saved at least one goal tonight on that two-on-one.” Norm, now jolted out of wherever his mind was, beamed with delight.

‘Ya, he’ll be alright,’ thought Harry. ‘All the guy really wants is to be part of the team, no matter what age or level he’s playing.’

Then Harry remembered a very blurry image of the Cabri Bulldogs crest and joining the local senior men’s team in Cabri, Saskatchewan at the age of sixteen. He was young and scared. And just wanted to fit in too with the older guys.

Harry rummaged around in his hockey bag and pulled out the now nearly 50-year old Bulldog jersey. He just didn’t have the heart to toss it. Too many memories in that sweater reminding him not only of the game but his teammates. Maybe that’s why Dale kept that ancient equipment.

He looked at his sweater, then at Dale’s gloves, helmet, and stick. “Dale, I think my old team sweater goes nicely with your equipment. Same vintage.” They both had a chuckle and talked more about their early days playing hockey.

Finally Harry stood and raised his can of beer to the his teammates . “Here’s to the best game in the world, boys. I guess the puck stops here.

…………………………..

EndNote

An increasing number of older men are playing hockey in Canada. And I’m that with time, more senior women will continue to play. Accurate statistics for Old Timer Hockey for the entire Country are hard to come by. But judging from the local Edmonton scene, Old Timer’s hockey is on the rise. To the point where it is getting increasingly harder to accommodate everyone. Fort example, the Vintage Hockey League which I had played in had three levels, based on a combination of both age and skill. The third tier contains some players in their eighties.

I used two team names, the Rusty Nuts and the NeverSweats, in this story. They nicely reflect both the age and the nature of Old Timer hockey teams. These were/are still actual team names. The Rusty Nuts were an Edmonton-based team in the 1990s (and they may still be around). The NeverSweats are an Old Timers Lloydminster team. They never seemed to sweat when they played us.

Many of us have gathered numerous great hockey stories over the years. While this story is mostly a work of fiction, some of the incidents happened during my time in Old Timer’s hockey. There are many more stories out there, as you can imagine; some are best not to repeat. I’m sure that if I interviewed those of you who played the game over the decades, I could fill a book of some pretty good Canadian hockey memories. It’s been a project on my mind for a while now. Perhaps some day it will come to fruition.

………………………

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I’ve Been Working On The Railroad: The Deconstruction of the National Dream

“Now of course, the great thing about the solar system as a frontier is that there are no Indians, so you can have all the glory of the myth of the American [Canadian] westward expansion without any of the guilt. (Sarah Zettel, brackets mine)

https://www.railpictures.net/images/d1/1/5/6/1156.1191207600.jpg

The Meeting, Ottawa, Canada, 1868

A small group of very powerful men sat in the room, on chairs pulled closely together, bent over talking quietly. Almost in whispers as if not wanting to be overheard. On seeing this meeting one would wonder. Why? Why are they whispering? There’s no one else in the room.

One of the more prominent members of the group was speaking. “We must act soon if we are to join the Territories to the rest of Canada. The Americans just bought Alaska and are beginning to look north at our North-WestTerritories, now mostly run by the Company. Soon their greed will overcome them and they will find an excuse to move north. First, we have to buy Rupert’s Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company. We must acquire those territories at all costs.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“And, I think if we promise British Columbia a railway, linking them to the east, they may join the Confederation.

The speaker sighed as he mentally went through the long list of things that needed doing. “We can’t build it until the Indians are removed from those territories. We need to deal with that issue as well.” He looked over at the others. Again, they nodded their heads in agreement.

“Then our course of action is clear, gentlemen. If we are to unite this Country we must face these, shall we say, somewhat distasteful realities.” At those words, the speaker’s mouth twisted into a shape suggesting he had just sucked on a lemon.

He wasn’t finished. “First we buy Rupert’s Land from the Company. Then we remove the Indians and Metis from the territories and settle for treaties and reserves. Next, we search for capital to build this blasted thing. It won’t be cheap.” He hesitated, scratching his head, as if there was something he had missed. The others looked on expectantly waiting for him to continue.

Finally, after some pause, he spoke. “Oh yes, there is one more small problem. We need cheap labour to build the railroad. Many hands will be needed which will increase costs. The work will be dangerous and there may be fatalities.”

Those present waited for him to continue. As if expecting a solution. “At this moment I don’t have a solution, but will start looking into the matter.” Again, heads bobbed in unison all around. As if this last statement was merely another one of many obstacles to overcome in their eventual quest. Nothing, it seemed, could get in the way of the national dream.

Kisikawasan (Flash in the Sky), 1882

Kisikawasan/Piapot, Cree Chief. Courtesy Glenbow Archives.

The Cree leader and his band, the Young Dogs, were tired from their long ride. His one name was Piapot or Payipwat (One Who Knows the Secrets of the Sioux). The other Kisikawasan. In his hands he held his Winchester repeating rifle. He sat on his horse, looking out onto the rippling prairie grasses at the territory he had chosen for his people, just north of the Cypress Hills. And smack in the way of the proposed new CPR mainline.

He turned to one of his men. “First the Blue Coats humiliate us, escorting us back like children to our lands. Now this man closes the fort of the Red Coats and stops feeding us unless we move to another territory. The buffalo are gone. Our people are starving. Gather them. We must move. Or many will die.”

Edgar Dewdney, recently appointed Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Territories as well as Indian Commissioner, which brought him an additional stipend of $2,000, looked on as the bands began to move north and east to other territories.

One of his subordinates, also looking on, turned his way. “Well, I guess your plan worked, Sir. You sure showed them. They go willingly enough when starving. And, finally we have removed them from the railway right-of-way. That defiant one, they call Piapot, would have put his tipi in the way of the proposed railway line if we hadn’t interfered.”

Dewdney only grunted and shook his head, in a noncommittal manner. He had just closed Fort Walsh to the Natives and stopped giving the Cree rations, unless they cooperated and moved off these lands. It was a grim business this railroad building but that was what Macdonald wanted. Even if it meant breaking the treaties, which they were already doing.

Some of the other men in Dewdney’s party overheard his assistant’s comments. And soon the rumors and stories spread. ‘The great lieutenant governor stood up to Piapot and his Young Dogs, and along with the NWMP, kicked them off their lands.’

Truth was soon twisted. And the new truth became myth.

………………….

Piapot, Saskatchewan today.

The Saskatchewan family were driving down the newly built Trans Canada Highway on the Canadian Prairies alongside the Canadian Pacific mainline. A young Harry Reed peered out the window in the back seat of his father’s car. As they passed the little village and the road sign bearing its name, Harry asked, “Piapot? What does that name mean, dad?”

“I don’t know, Harry. Makes no sense, this word, Piapot. Maybe something to do with a pot.” Harry shrugged. His parents didn’t know much about Canadian history. He would ask his teachers.

“Well, according to the stories I heard, Harry, that is the name of a prominent Cree Chief who at this very place put his tipi in the way of the new CPR line. He claimed these lands as his and was going to battle the Canadian Government for them. The NWMP came and kicked over his tipi and dragged him off the line. He was then moved to other lands.”

Harry thought about the teacher’s answer. He shook his head, imagining that past. Thinking to himself. ‘But, if he was so bad, why did they then name a village after him? To mock him?’

Myth is embedded in history. So, how can it not be true.

Put A Tax on Their Heads, 1884

“It is simply a question of alternatives: either you must have this labour or you can’t have the railway.” (John A. Macdonald, 1882, Canadian Parliament, speaking in defense of bringing in cheap Chinese labor, against the wishes of many Canadians, to build the Canadian Pacific Railroad)

Chinese workers on the Canadian Pacific Railway. Given poor food, no medical help, the lowest pay, the hardest, most dangerous work, and then abandoned to fend for themselves when the railway was completed. (Image D-07548 courtesy of the Royal BC Museum and Archives)

Williams, one of the CPR herders of the Chinese work crews, opened the door and entered the crowded Chinese living barracks beside the CPR track, deep in the Canadian Rockies. The crews were building the Canadian Pacific Railway through one of its toughest stretches. The Fraser Canyon, British Columbia.

A large plume of blue tobacco smoke, and the smell of sweat of fifty men, passed him on its way out. Williams looked at the scene. They were gambling again. Hands thrust in the air with money frantically trying to place their bets.

Williams leaned over to one the of Chinese workers who spoke broken, but decent English. And yelled at the top of his voice. “What are they doing, Li Qiang?”

Li Qiang only shook his head. “You must speak louder.”

“Are they placing bets?,” roared Williams almost losing his tonsils in the process.

“Yes, Mr. Williams. New game.” Winner makes lots of money.”

“What new game, Li Qiang? How do you fellas have enough energy for games considering how hard you work?”

“We bet on everything. Even how many railroad ties needed for certain section of track. Or, maybe how many spikes bent laying that track. You want play? Cost you your four dollars a day wages, not my one dollar a day wages.”

“That’s rather sad, Li Qiang! Why do you bet on such trivial things?”

“Why sad, Williams? Everyone count, then bet. Might as well gamble. It keeps our minds off the hard, dangerous work.”

“But why do you gamble away your hard-earned money? You should be saving to go home or bring your families to Canada.”

“We not save enough to go home. Or bring families. Only way is to gamble. This way at least some get rich.”

“Maybe we even gamble when you have accident herder, or that pig, Oderbunk.” With those words, Li Qiang spat on the floor as if trying to remove a bad taste from his mouth. Oderbunk was the Chinese contractor who brought the Chinese to work on the railway. The mere mention of his name raised the hackles of these men.

A now somewhat worried Williams noticed the room had gone silent, with the mention of Oderbunk’s name. Many of the workers were looking at him. And in a not too kindly way. He only shook his head and left, opening the door and taking more smoke and smell with him on the way out. Behind him he heard the shouting and betting start again.

‘That stupid, greedy Andrew Oderbunk is behind a lot of this madness. Treating them like animals. No wonder they almost killed him in that strike in 1881. Given their work and future, what have they got to lose? Besides their lives.’

…………………

Construction of tunnel 49, Canadian Pacific Railway, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia. https://yl.sd53.bc.ca/mod/book/view.php?id=4987&chapterid=2966

The railroad work crews were having lunch outside one on the many tunnels in the Fraser Canyon, below the majestic peaks of the Rockies. Suddenly the blast came, followed by the concussion of air knocking them off the rail cars and onto the shaking ground. Then silence as the large plume of dust enveloped them.

Eventually out of the silence and debris, a dust-covered Chinese worker staggered, barely coherent screaming in Cantonese. Most of his clothes had been torn off, his hair and eyebrows singed, still smoldering.

“The tunnel entrance. Cheap explosives go off too soon. Everything smashed, everyone gone…” His last words failed him as he collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood now coming out of his ears.

…………………..

Chinese barracks for construction crews along the Canadian Pacific Railway. Image I-30869, Accession Number: 198401-006, 1883, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.

At the end of the month Williams walked into the Chinese workers’ barracks again to the same commotion and racket that had greeted him before. On the bench beside the booky stood a rather forlorn looking young Chinese man. The booky had propped his hands in the air as if in victory.

Williams looked for Li Qiang, finally seeing him among the men. “Are they betting again, Li Qiang?”

“No. First announcing winner.”

“So, I take it that’s the winner standing on the bench. He guessed how many rail ties it took to build that stretch this month? Or, whether I would die? If he won, why is he looking so gloomy? He probably won a month’s wages, or more.”

“Won bet, but lost brother in explosion.”

“But why are you betting on these things ? Surely, without betting, you can save enough money to go back to China.”

Li Qiang cocked his head to one side considering Williams. “We save little. That swine, Oderbunk take much money. We hear head tax coming. Must pay head tax to bring our families from China.”

Then Li Qiang walked off getting ready to place another bet, leaving a gaping Williams only shaking his head. Head tax? So the rumors really were true.

Chinese men gambling in railway camp, British Columbia. Image B-09758, Accession Number: 193501-001, 1886, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.

…………………….

Victoria, British Columbia, 1884

Telegram from John Alexander Galt, High Commissioner, London to John A. Macdonald inquiring about all the Chinese deaths building the CPR railroad. Library and Archives Canada, MG26-A, Volume 220, Page 93790, From London to Sir John A. Macdonald, “Correspondence, June 11, 1883.”

“So just how many Chinese workers died, Oderbunk? I’m getting writing cramps trying to keep up with the Prime Minister’s telegrams.” The chief commissioner was not a happy man. And he sensed this man was not being forthright with him.

The nervous Oderbunk fidgeted in his chair, licking his lips. Beside him sat Williams, one of his chief foremen to help with the details. Finally Oderbunk answered. “Well. We’re not quite sure, Commissioner, how many we’ve lost.”

The now fuming Commissioner next asked like what seemed a series of very sensible questions. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Don’t you record the deaths? You’re responsible for compensation to their families and returning their remains back home, are you not?” You pay them. When they don’t show up, well, they must be dead?”

“Well, Sir. Often we can’t recover the bodies. They fall into the canyon or the river and are swept away. And, many of these men desert to find work elsewhere. So, when they don’t show up, we’re not always sure what happened.” Oderbunk hoped this answer might appease the Commissioner. And avoid that nasty little business about not recovering the bodies or compensating the families. It did not.

After the meeting a rather shaken Williams walked away thinking some nasty, nasty things about Oderbunk. Almost ready to return to the camps where the Chinese were betting. ‘No, no, I can’t do that. Put that thought out of your mind, Williams.’

Later Immigrants and the CPR

A friend of mine gave this galvanized spike to my father, made into a bottle opener, on his retirement from the CPR. Whenever I crack a beer with it I think back to both my father and the CPR extra gangs, summer 1973.

Harry Reed sat in the living room listening to his father and uncle talk about their days with the CPR. Occasionally the conversation became quite animated. In fact, almost hostile.

“Why don’t you agree, Walter. The Company was good to us. We made a living, fed our families. Yes, we had to work a little, but at least we had work.”

‘That’s an understatement,’ thought Harry. ‘Work a little?’ But then that’s what Uncle Bob thought because Harry, in his short years on earth, had never met a harder worker. While others grumbled, Uncle Bob thrived. He loved the work.

Walter did not. Unable to listen any longer, Walter got mad. “The CPR, Robert, was SCHEISSE! They treated us worse than animals. Vie Verschissende Hunde, Robert. “While Walter’s English was a little rough, his vocabulary in swear words seemed well rounded. In English. German. Even a few Polish and Ukrainian gems occasionally thrown in there.

Walter picked up the silver railroad spike opener from the table and cracked a few beer. Red-faced he needed a drink when talking about the CPR with Robert. He looked down at the silver opener.

“See this spike, Robert. This was given to me by my son’s friend. That’s more than that God………… CPR ever gave me. One-hundred and sixty dollars pension a month after thirty years of working for them. And a piece of paper thanking me. That’s all I got. You know what I’d like to do with this spike. Shove it up some big-shot CPR’s as….” Della, also listening cut Walter off before his words landed him in the abyss.

“Now Walter. I don’t think swearing at the CPR is going to help anything.”

“Cripe-No-Mighty,” grumbled a still steaming Walter. He had designed a unique series of cuss words all his own.

Then he touched the permanent reddened part of his ear, which always itched, remembering what else he got while sitting on the little open railroad scooter inspecting the tracks on a breezy winter Saskatchewan day with windchill of minus forty degrees Fahrenheit.

But Robert, ever the optimist, continued. “Well, if you had joined the CPR extra gangs, you would have made more money and been promoted. And now your pension would be much better. Like mine.”

“Those were nothing but slave camps, Robert. What kind of life is that? Being months away from your family with little time off. How could you like that life? Nothing but a sweat house for dumb, uneducated immigrants like us. Who couldn’t find any other work.” Words that perhaps were a little over-exaggerated, but Walter didn’t care anymore. Finally he stopped and drained half his beer, hoping to drown the memories of the CPR and all it stood for.

Uncle Bob continued, but Walter had tuned out thinking about one of the many dark times he had on that cursed railroad.

Harry kept quiet and just listened. When Walter and Bob talked railroad, it was best to just stay of out of the way. Pretend he wasn’t even there.

Harry was suddenly jolted out of his referee, realizing that Uncle Bob was talking to him. “See Walter, even your son got along with the CPR extra gangs. He liked it. Even got promoted. Right, Harry?”

Harry, out of respect for his uncle, simply nodded and said nothing. ‘Wrong, Uncle Bob. I love and respect you. But on that count you are wrong. That was an awful job.’

Then Harry thought back to the CPR extra gangs. Glorious times indeed. He’d hoped those memories had disappeared into the past. But, some of them were hard to erase.

Myth, if repeated long enough, becomes the new reality.

These are the tracks that my dad and my uncle worked on, making sure the trains went through safely. Cabri, Saskatchewan, Canada on the horizon.

College Boy Meets the CPR Extra Gangs, Spring, 1973

CPR extra gang machinery on the move. When the railroad tracks finally reached a certain point of disrepair, these gangs were brought in to completely refurbish them. https://www.railpictures.net/images/d1/9/3/6/4936.1131861600.jpg

Harry had just been interviewed by Parks Canada for a summer job as an interpreter at the historic National Site, Fort Walsh, Saskatchewan. It would have been the perfect job. It was close to home, paid well, and was the kind of work he was studying at the University of Alberta. But it didn’t happen.

“I need a job, Uncle Bob. I have to pay my university tuition and board. There’s little work out there.”

“Well, maybe I can get you on the CPR extra gangs. It’s good, steady work and I think you can handle it.”

“When can I start, Uncle”, asked the somewhat forlorn looking Harry? Walter was standing by, shaking his head. He said little, thinking. Maybe this was a good thing. His son needed some harsh lessons in reality. He was treating university like a training ground for the fine art of partying.

“O.K. Harry, give me a few days, and then I’ll phone you. We’re working on the main line near Medicine Hat. Not too far from home with your one day off.”

Harry gulped. Did he hear right? ‘One day off.’ That of course meant working six days a week. But, the worst was yet to come.

……………………

It was still dark outside. Pitch black in fact. Suddenly someone was walking through the rail sleeping car, shouting. “Time to get up boys. Breakfast is on the table. The cook grumbles when you’re late.”

Harry and others groaned trying to wake up. Sleeping was tough on the mainline. When every two hours another freight train raced by them at fifty miles an hour, eight feet away.

That voice almost had a cheerful ring to it, which made it even harder to listen to at four AM in the morning. His friend Phil, bunking next to him finally sat up. “One of these mornings I’ll strangle that cheery bastard.”

“They’ll just replace him with another one. I think they get paid extra for that voice.”

Harry finally got up and dressed. Ready for the day. After three weeks working on the gangs, his muscles were no longer screaming in agony. The blisters on his university hands had finally healed and hardened up. “Well let’s get something to eat and see what cookie burned this morning.”

As they neared the rail cook car, the noise and hubbub grew louder. Suddenly one of the the windows of the cook car blew out, closely followed by what looked like a platter of cold meat.

Then there was a lot of yelling inside the cook car. Harry heard one of his other friends, Jim’s voice, screaming. “How can you put that shit on a plate and serve it to us? Look at it. It’s green. Meat isn’t supposed to be green. I’m going to kick your ass all the way to Medicine Hat…” Then Harry heard running as cookie, fearing for his life, quickly existed the cook car. Never to return.

Well, another day starts on the gangs. What will happen next? There was still twelve hours of back-breaking work ahead. The day was young. A lot could happen.

…………………….

The ballast crew was running beside the ballast cars, on the sloped, rocky rail track trying to open the bottom doors with their hand cranks. To pour out the crushed rock around and between the new ties and track. It was a smoldering hot prairie afternoon, the air was choked with dust from the ballast.

This was one of the toughest jobs on the gangs. But, you got a little extra time off at the end of day because of the hard work. And if you wanted to get promoted to a machine, this was one way of doing it.

The train had to go at just the right speed so that the ballast could be poured evenly onto the rail bed and tracks. Too slow and too much ballast came out, derailing the cars. Too fast, and there wasn’t enough ballast to fill the tracks.

As the train reached the slope heading into Medicine Hat, it sped up. Harry’s lungs were about to burst as he ran along his rail car, trying to keep up. Someone screamed. “We’re going too fast. Tell that engineer to slow down or this will be a disaster.” In the distance Harry heard foremen screaming into their radios.

But the engineer didn’t slow down. And soon Harry’s buddies started to abandon ship. He saw John, bent over puking up the ballast dust he ingested. Then out of the corner of his other eye, he saw Amos desperately trying to hang onto his crank, sent tumbling off the grade disappearing into the rail ditch. Finally the rest of crew, including Harry, had stopped cranking.

Another day, another dollar on the extra gangs. Well, not quite that bad. Thirty-nine dollars to be fair.

………………….

The work crews stood in line for their midday lunch beside the tracks. Which was brought out to them by the cooks. One half-hour to eat and then it was back to work.

The prairie sun was blazing down on the exposed track sending heat waves into the air. The shimmering railroad track looked like a mirage in the distance. It was exposed, lying naked on the rail bed with no ballast to keep it in place.

Someone in the lunch line started pushing. And the yelling and cursing started. “Out of the way, turban-head. We need to eat and get back to work.” One of the crew, who seemed to have a particular dislike for the East Indian workers, was trying to butt in line and get his lunch before disaster struck.

Then the fighting in the lunch line broke out in earnest. Pushing, shoving. Kicking and punches thrown before the foremen stepped in and broke it up.

“Stop it, Kenny. They don’t understand English very well and you’re not exactly Mr. articulate either. They think you’re butting in. Here, step aside and I’ll sort this out.”

Uncle Bob was patiently trying to explain Kenny’s rudeness to the East Indians. “These men have to eat first. There’s no ballast on the tracks…”

His words were cut off by a loud SNAP. Followed by another SNAP. And then it happened. The Canadian Pacific railway, which had lain on this track for nearly one-hundred years, decided to take a walk. Off the rail bed towards the ditch.

Men scrambled in every direction, fully knowing what was taking place. Karl, roadmaster of the extra gang, ran up, breathless. “Hurry up. Let’s get out there before it…”

Everyone stared as the entire mile of rail turned into a writhing steel snake and began moving toward the ditch, as the now hot steel rails expanded in the noonday heat.

“Or what Karl, before the tracks go in the ditch.”

The CPR mainline was shut down for many hours. Backing up freight trains in both directions. Because of one overzealous gang boss who was trying to repair too much track at once and not paying attention to the weather. Or the laws of physics.

Harry watched with fascination. How could a mile of steel rail suddenly look like a wet noodle? And then he realized what this meant. Overtime. The men wouldn’t leave here until eight or nine tonight. Maybe midnight. That mainline had to be opened or heads would roll.

And another day on the extra gangs was finished.

………………….

“See Walter. Your son could do it. He worked on the gangs and made some good money.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Hardly. He’d managed to get on one of the machines for three weeks and did make twice as much money as before. And then they all went on strike because of the poor working conditions and wages, and Harry went back to school.

“Those were good boys, Walter and Della. They worked hard and sometimes they got into a little trouble. Some were a little rough around the edges. Like the time they got into a fight in a bar and spent the night in the Calgary jai…”

Harry, having taken lessons from his mother, cut off his uncle’s words. “Uncle Bob, I’m sure mom and dad don’t want to hear that story.” Harry anxiously looked at his mother who now had that knowing look on her face.

“Come Harry, tell your mother the rest of that story. I like stories. I can hardly wait to hear it.

……………………

EndNote:

I am not a great fan of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Or other similar corporations. I’m not anti-capitalist. I just don’t like it when large corporations become greedy. Yes, a transcontinental railway was sorely needed to tie together an enormous country and its shareholders and owners had to pay off the $100,000,000 it cost to build it. But throughout its history the CPR made considerable profits off the backs of immigrant labourers, treating them poorly, or worse. There was a lot of labour unrest and discrimination against some minorities even in the 1970s when I worked there. And today the Company still makes tremendous profits. In 2016, the CPR had a $6.2 billion revenue and $1.6 billion dollars in profit and held assets valued at $19.2 billion dollars. Its top CEO made close to twenty million dollars a year, with perks and shares in the Company.

When I was a kid, we learned that the Cree Chief Piapot tried to stop the building of the CPR mainline by pitching his tent in the way. Presumably somewhere near today’s Piapot, Saskatchewan. The story goes that he was forcefully removed by the North West Mounted Police. Historians have pored through the documents and there is not a shred of evidence to support that story. But it somehow seems to resonate better among Canadians than: ‘First Nations people were starved to force them off the lands, so that the railway could be built.’

The story of the Chinese immigrants brought over by the CPR to help build the railroad is equally sad. Their struggle and sacrifice is finally being told and recognized. In this story, I mentioned the Head Tax put on Chinese immigrants to prevent them from coming to Canada. Many Chinese workers could not save enough to either return to China or pay it to bring over their families. In the story I have deliberately changed the name of the chief contractor, responsible for bringing in Chinese workers and the horrendous conditions they had to put up with. With a little research you can easily find out his real name. Because of the poor records kept, even to this day no one knows for certain how many Chinese workers died building the railway (everywhere from 600 – 2,000).

Although I try not to judge history, and instead document and research it, I can’t help but have some deep emotional feelings for the many many ethnic minorities who toiled to build the intercontinental railway and then maintain it. My parents, relatives and some of our friends were among them.

As was I for what seemed like one of the longest summers of my life. I saw firsthand the poor working conditions and continued racism even in the 1970s. The East Indian workers were now the new Chinese. After that summer of ’73’, my university career outlook became more focused as I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I ended up shoveling dirt anyway, but had way more fun doing it.

…………………..

Posted on

Fur Press(ed) Man: A Self-Solve Fur Trade Murder Mystery

Note: This is a self-solve murder mystery story. All the information needed to solve it is in the story. It’s your job to find the murderer and state the reason you chose that particular person. The name of the murderer is in the story. You have one chance. Remember, no guessing. You have to tell me why you think it’s that particular person. The evidence has to be conclusive.

The fur press at the reconstructed HBC Fort Edmonton, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Furs were pressed into about ninety pound bundles in preparation for shipment to York Factory, Hudson Bay, and then eventually to England and the European markets. The long log pole was capable of applying tremendous force to the furs in the log rack, reducing them to a manageable compact bundle.

He was the fur press man. That was his job. First inspecting all the furs to make sure they were vermin-free and dry. Then squashing them into a compact bundle using the enormous fur press at Fort Edmonton. Once satisfied, he wrapped the bundle in oiled canvas, then tied it securely, so it wouldn’t get wet on the long journey from Edmonton to York Factory, Hudson Bay.

Now, he was the fur pressed man. Very flat and part of a bundle of furs sitting in the courtyard at Fort Edmonton. Bleeding.

Sarah, strolling by the fur press in the early morning light saw it first. Barely having time to scream, she fainted and collapsed. Isobel, seeing Sarah fall, rushed out to the fur press to help. Then she too saw it and also fainted. Andrew ran out to the ladies’ aid, saw it, bent over and threw up his breakfast.

Chief Factor, Ronald Jones, rushed out, saw it, exclaiming, “What a goddamned mess! Now who’s going to press the furs? LaCoine was our best man.”

His wife, Mary, right behind him, cuffed him on the back of the head. “Here we have a very dead man, Ronald. One of yours. And all you can think about is who will press the furs?”

“No, Mary. That’s not all I was thinking. I was also thinking how we’ll have to cook the books to make up for the loss of those bloodied, spoiled beaver pelts.” For his words he received another cuff from Mary.

Now everyone rushed out into the middle of the compound. Including the killer. The growing crowd was somewhat mesmerized as they stared at the gore. ‘Nice job,’ thought the killer. ‘Looks even better in the daylight.’

“How do we know it’s even LaCoine. I mean there’s not much to see. Look. His one eyeball is close to his …..”

“That’s enough Katherine. We can all see where his eyeball is lying.” Mary seemed to be the only one who was thinking clearly.

Katherine turned to the Chief Factor. “How do you know who it is, Ronald? He……., it’s totally unrecognizable.” She gave the Chief Factor a suspicious look. Only the killer might know who that was.

The Chief Factor bent down and opened one of the hands sticking out of the bundle. It was clutching something in the closed fist. He produced a shiny object, holding it up. A silver cross of Lorraine. He turned it over and there on the other side were the Montreal silversmith’s initials, JC etched into the silver.

Silver ornaments and jewelry were a common trade item in the early western Canadian fur trade. This silver Cross of Lorraine was recovered from the North West Company Fort George (c.1792-1800), Alberta, Canada. Most likely a possession of one of the many French Canadians who worked for the Company.

“Must of been made by the Lord himself. Initials are identical.” The somewhat drawling, booming voice came out of nowhere. Everyone turned toward the man uttering what seemed, under the circumstances, rather crass words. There standing near them was a rather large man dressed in black. Perched on the stranger’s head was a black beaver felt top hat, of unusual style. Instead of a black band, a thin, red band circled the crown of the hat. He was inspector of the forts of the Western Territories for the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company. John A. Beeston.

Beaver felt hat styles changed through time or differed depending on one’s occupation. When developing the ‘World’s Meet‘ gallery at the new Royal Alberta Museum we searched in vain for an authentic beaver felt hat to put on display. There are none in Canada and those few remaining in museums in other parts of the world, were not for loan. Rather ironic, don’t you think. The leading exporter of beaver fur for making felt hats, and we don’t have one original left to show Canadians. At least that I know of.

“Well, Beeston, glad you showed up. This is now in your hands. You are an inspector after all.” The Chief Factor stepped away, wanting nothing more to do with this gruesome affair.

“I’m a building inspector. Inspector of forts. Not a detective of crimes. No, this doesn’t fall in my bailiwick. Look for someone else to deal with your mess.” Beeston then bent over to examine the severely squished body. He reached out and picked something off the corpse, quickly putting it in his pocket.

John Beeston was a tall, gangly-looking man. Upon first seeing him, people gawked at those enormous hands. And those feet. He seemed slow and awkward, with about as much grace as a lumbering elephant. Whenever people looked at his scarred face they imagined all sorts of things that might have caused them. Few had the courage to ask. Both his demeanor and size inspired both respect and fear.

Ronald Jones pushed his point. “Look at it this way, Beeston, it could have been anyone of us standing here who did it. Crushed poor LaCoine into a contorted bloody blob.” At his words, Sarah nearly fainted again and Mary felt a little light-headed.

“Beeston, you’re the only one here that’s sort of neutral. You have to take charge.”

“How do you know I’m neutral? I could have done it, same as anyone else.”

“What motive would you have had, Beeston? You just got here and don’t even know the man. You’d be my last suspect.” Those around the Chief Factor all nodded in agreement. The killer too liked the idea. Beeston didn’t look like the swiftest buffalo on the prairie. In his hands, which admittedly were rather large, the murder investigation would likely go nowhere.

“But, why would any one here kill LaCoine? He was just a ordinary worker. You have no obvious reason to harm the man.” Beeston, not realizing he was already beginning the investigation, looked around at those gathered. Most eyes were downcast, not wanting to meet his.

“Well, why are you all suddenly looking guilty. You, what’s your name?” Beeston pointed a large finger at an elderly looking man with graying hair and spectacles on his nose. “You, Sir, tell me what you know of this man.”

“Name’s Edward Sinclair, Sir. I’m the clerk of the fort. I keep the books.” Beeston simply stared at the man. ‘Well, a clerk who takes care of the books and a man who takes care of the furs.’ There could be some dark things going on there between those two. He would follow that up with further questions of this clerk. And have a close look at those books.

“So, tell me why would anyone press poor LaCoine here into a pancake?” Hearing those words, a few of the men, especially Andrew, looked like they were going to sick-up. Again.

Everyone, including the killer, remained silent. The only sound came from some restless shuffling feet.

Beeston patiently waited but no one spoke. “I see. It seems you all didn’t like this man – for various reasons, I presume.”

Not a word from anyone. Finally the Chief Factor broke the silence. “I’ll tell you now, Inspector Beeston, that he wasn’t very well liked by anyone. But, I don’t think he was hated enough to be murdered.”

“Well, obviously he was, Chief Factor. See, he looks quite dead to me.” To make his point Beeston lifted up a limp arm and let it fall. Someone had certainly hated LaCoine enough. Or needed to get rid of the man to hide something.

Finally a somewhat recovered Sarah blurted out, “All the women in the fort loathed LaCoine. Whenever he came near us he would pinch and grope us and tell us what he’d like to do to us in the dark when our husbands were away.” The women around Sarah then started telling stories about LaCoine. Some were truly awful. They had reason to dislike him. But to kill him. Was that enough?

And Beeston wondered. ‘Would a woman be strong enough to press a man to death.’ Then he glanced at Sarah and had his answer. ‘For someone so sturdy looking, she sure faints easily.’

The usually stoic fort Native interpreter, Bear-Child, piped up. “He hated us. Anyone who was Native or of mixed-blood. He thought himself better than us. He would often taunt me or the others, hoping to start a fight. He was a mean man. Especially when drunk which he was often enough. One night he fell in the river yelling for help. I didn’t go help. I hoped he would drown. But someone else heard and pulled him out.” A now shaking Bear-Child stopped. It was obvious he hated LaCoine with a passion.

Jack Smith, the fort cooper, an enormous man, almost Beeston’s size, spoke next. “You’re not the only one he hated. He detested the English even more. Kept reminding us we should not have won that bloody war down east. Said, he would get revenge on us some day. I, and others, didn’t much care for that bloody French blowhard.”

Beeston now realized that most of the women, those of mixed-blood and Natives, and English servants disliked this man. That was about the entire fort population. That left only the French Canadians. And those present weren’t shedding any tears.

Beeston sighed. This case wasn’t going to be easy. “OK, that’s enough for today. Let’s clean up this mess and take the rest of the day to calm down. Tomorrow I’ll start interviewing and questioning all of you again. I’ll continue until we can make some sense of this.”

“So, you’re taking on the investigation, Beeston?,” asked a relieved-looking Chief Factor.

“Yes, it seems so.” Beeston then strolled over to the fur bundle and with one enormous hand grabbed its ropes and walked off with the entire mess, making sure it didn’t touch his finely pressed trousers, toward one of the shops. “Well, come along, Chief Factor. Let’s have a closer look at the body for clues.”

“Me?,” sputtered Jones. “Surely, you can use one of my other men. I don’t need to be there to see this up close. I’ve seen enough.”

Beeston kept walking. And finally yelled back. “Bring your clerk, Jones. We need to record this properly for my report. Edward will do nicely.”

Both a sick-looking Edward Sinclair and Ronald Jones hesitated, but then reluctantly followed the inspector of buildings, into one.

…………………..

“You seem to know your way around dead bodies, Beeston. Something you want to share with me.”

Beeston only gave Jones an icy stare. Then he continued looking at what was left of LaCoine. Now straightened out, laying on a wood table in the trading room of the fort.

Edward sat in the corner taking notes as Beeston described details about LaCoine’s remains. He looked ready to pass out but managed to coherently write down what Beeston said.

“Someone very powerful must have done this. Look at him.” Jones too wasn’t feeling well either, looking at the blood and gore, now all nicely spread out.

“Why do you think that, Jones? This mess was caused by that fur press. With that press it wouldn’t take much strength to do this.”

“Oh, I guess not. That press could crack a rock if enough pressure was applied to the end of the pole. So, what happened, inspector?”

Beeston went over to the shattered head and pointed. “See this here, Chief Factor. There is a deep indentation on the skull caused by a blunt object of some sort.” Jones reluctantly bent over and yes there was a large indentation on the back of LaCoine’s head, which could not have been caused by the fur press.

Then Beeston strolled over to the man’s feet and his boots. “And see here, Jones, the dirt on the heels of his shoes. As if he had been dragged some distance.” Jones looked and yes, there was dirt on the boot heels and pants which seemed somewhat unusual from just walking. Dragging an unconscious LaCoine to be pressed would have taken some effort. LaCoine, in his former unpressed state, wasn’t exactly small.

“LaCoine was smacked on the head elsewhere then dragged to the fur press, perhaps still alive, and pressed into a nice little bundle, it seems. I noticed the heel marks in the compound near the fur press. They ended here at the trading store.”

“But, why no screaming, Beeston? Surely, if he was still alive he would have yelled.”

Beeston went back to the head. Opened the man’s contorted jaws. And pulled out a very large rag. “I guess, that’s why, Jones. Maybe he wanted to….”

Beeston was about to say more when the door suddenly opened and Father Broussard walked in. Unannounced. Had the good father been listening outside? Beeston wasn’t sure. “Evening gentlemen. Terrible, just terrible. I was at the scene by the fur press, but didn’t want to interfere. I want to pray for this poor man’s soul, one of my sheep.” The Father was wringing his hands, clearly in some discomfort.

Beeston causally asked. “And what kind of man was this sheep of yours, Father? Everyone paints him as having rather black fleece. Do you know anything that might help in the investigation? A murderer walks among us. We must find him. Or her.”

“I can’t divulge his confessions, Inspector. He was, however, a difficult, often troubled man. I had hoped he would find solace in the Lord our Savior. And perhaps learn to treat those around him with more kindness.”

Beeston only nodded. “Well, we’re done for the evening, Father. I’ll leave you with your crumpled sheep. In prayer.” A bewildered Father looked at Beeston, then at the remains of LaCoine. As his stomach started churning from the sight, he decided the prayers weren’t going to take too long.

Hearing Beeston’s words, Edward ran out of the store as if shot from a cannon. Thinking. ‘How can that Beeston be so cool and calm with that gory mess?’ Truly, there was something strange about the man. Building inspector? And that accent wasn’t British. Edward wondered who he really was. Best to be careful around that one.

………………..

Early next morning Beeston woke suddenly to screaming outside. For a few moments he didn’t know where he was. Everything around him looked unfamiliar. Then he remembered. Fort Edmonton. The screaming and shouting continued and then Beeston heard the footsteps running out into fort compound.

Beeston strode out of his room, stood on the Big House second storey balcony and looked down at the small crowd gathered around the fur press. There beside the fur press stood Father Broussard, Isobel and Katherine with their hands over their mouths, the French Canadian labourers, Louis, and LaFrance, and the fort tailor, John. Jack Smith was conversing quietly with the fort interpreter, Bear-Child, on the other side of the fur press.

Then Beeston looked at the fur press. Hanging between the large posts with a noose around a hooded head was what looked like a scarecrow. Beeston descended the stairs and walked towards the scene.

Chief Factor Jones came running up. “What is it? Oh, not again. Is it real or just some joke?”

Beeston first saw the blood oozing from under the hooded head. He reached up and pulled off the hood. And, there in all it’s gory glory, was LaCoine’s broken face, with his one eye, staring back at him. Everyone around gagged and gasped at the site. The killer wandered over, trying to look as sick and confused as everyone else. Followed by the cooks, Ted and Marie, who both had worried looks on their faces. And flour on their hands.

“Who would do such a thing?” asked Emily. “This is awful. He’s been murdered twice it seems. Our killer can’t seem to kill LaCoine often enough.”

Now Marybell and Martin were inspecting the scarecrow’s gloves which functioned as hands. Martin was just about to open the closed glove, when Beeston stepped in. “Don’t touch it. Let me look at it first.” Beeston bent over and examined the scarecrow’s hand and opened it, prying out a flat circular object. He raised it up and showed it to those gathered around.

“Here’s what he was holding? A 1MB piece.”

The Hudson’s Bay Company developed a form of currency in exchange for furs, thus avoiding a direct bartering system with Natives. When Natives brought in their furs they were given a value for them in ‘made beaver’ (the value of one prime male beaver pelt). If they couldn’t spend all their tokens on trade goods, they kept the remaining tokens to spend at some future time.

“Is it a clue for us?” asked Edward the clerk. “Is the killer leaving a message for us?”

“Perhaps,” sighed a perplexed Beeston. “Or perhaps he or she is misleading us by leaving these clues.” Beeston personally felt all these ‘clues’ were nothing but a smokescreen. And then while everyone was chatting and speculating on what the Made Beaver token meant, Beeston opened the other glove and removed something else, quickly slipping it into his pocket before anyone noticed. But the killer noticed. And smiled inwardly, thinking Beeston would be fooled by what he had found.

“What does it mean, inspector Beeston? It’s obviously a clue. First a holy cross and now a MB token. I can’t figure it out.” Chief Factor Jones looked as puzzled as everyone else by this supposedly new clue.

“I don’t know, Jones. Maybe it’s a clue. But why would the killer try to help us solve the murder? That doesn’t make any sense.” Beeston continued to muse in silence.

Finally Beeston spoke to the gathering. “Let’s clean this up and get LaCoine’s head back with the rest of him.” He looked around for help but the clerk Edward had already disappeared. In anticipation of being asked to help again. ‘Coward’, thought the now smiling Beeston. ‘Doesn’t like to be near the gore with those delicate clerk’s hands of his.’

Beeston went to remove LaCoine’s head from the scarecrow only to find it sewn onto the shirt and coat. He looked closely at the delicate, precise stitching. As if a tailor had done it. Or one of the fort women, many of whom were excellent at sewing and embroidery. Or a surgeon, with very skilled hands, accustomed to such work. And that 1MB token. Who would have access to those tokens other than the clerk and Chief Factor.

Finally he just picked up the scarecrow, head and all, and walked back to the store with it. Jones followed him. The others went back to their cabins or work.

“Can we lock that door tonight, Chief Factor? Obviously the killer is not intent on murdering this man just once.”

“After we’re finished here, Inspector, I’ll lock up. That should keep him safe until we bury his remains.” Jones was about to leave the inspector still thinking about this new turn of events and who might have done it.

Before he could, however, Beeston asked, “Chief Factor, do you have a surgeon or doctor at the fort?”

Jones thought for a moment before answering. “No certified medical doctor, inspector. Our tailor studied medicine before he joined the Company. He often administers medicine and does small medical things when necessary.”

“Thank you, Chief Factor.” ‘Interesting,’ thought Beeston. ‘A tailor who knows medicine. I’ll have to keep an eye on that John fellow. But, what’s his motive? Why would a tailor have reason to do such a thing? Twice.’

For the rest of the day Beeston interviewed the fort personnel. Some in their living quarters. Others while at their assigned tasks around the fort. By the end of the day he was no closer to finding the killer. It was never easy, but sooner or later the murderer would slip up and leave a clue. They always did. It was just a matter of time.

Then he thought about the two objects he’s removed from the body without anyone seeing them. Or, least he thought no one saw them. Two HBC officers’ pewter coat buttons with what appeared to be a beaver design on the face. He chuckled to himself as he looked at the buttons in his hand. ‘Beaver? Look more like pigs to me.’ Another clue? Or diversion? Did LaCoine’s killer put them there? Or perhaps someone else who wanted to implicate a person they disliked? He would check closely who had lost a button.

I received this sterling silver button as a gift after my first stint at the then Provincial Museum of Alberta. With this gift was a little note that went something like this: “This a cast replica of a Hudson’s Bay Company button recovered from the HBC Buckingham House (c.1792-1800), Alberta Canada. The design appears on the central part of the HBC coat of arms. Obviously, the button’s English designer had never seen a beaver; hence, the name “Hudson’s Bay Company ‘pig’ buttons was bestowed upon this charming button.”

…………………….

That night Beeston set up a chair in the dark at the window of one of the cabins nearest to the fur press. He was certain the killer would return. It was now three in the morning and nothing had happened. Beeston needed to pee. As he headed to the privy he heard something behind him. He started to turn. But it was too late. The blow caught him in the back of the head and he went down like a ton of bricks.

The next thing he remembered was someone shaking him. “Beeston, are you alive? Wake up man. Are you OK?” Beeston opened one eye to see a blurry Chief Factor standing over him. His head hurt like hell. Slowly he tried to get up and finally managed to sit.

“I’ll live, Chief Factor. Just a lump on the head.”

“Jesus, what happened, Beeston? Have you been lying here all night?”

“No, just since about three in the morning. I went to the privy and someone came up behind me and smacked me a good one. That’s the last thing I remember. Good thing it’s spring. Or I would have frozen to death.” Beeston was now rubbing himself all over, trying to expel the early spring Edmonton chill of the night from his sore body.

“What were you doing out here at three in the morning, inspector?”

“I was watching the fur press. I had a feeling the killer would return.” Ronald Jones thought about that. ‘Maybe Beeston hit himself on the head to avoid suspicion.’ There was just something a little off about the man.

“Well, you were right about that, Beeston. He, or she, returned. Look over there.”

Beeston turned toward where Jones was pointing. There stapled to the fur press was a figure, dressed in LaCoine’s bloody clothes with a painting of his face for the head. The figure was punctured with about a dozen arrows, looking more like an oversized pin cushion than a man.

Around the figure stood a small crowd of fort workers, whispering among themselves and wondering what this meant. Emily, Marybell and Martin looked rather stricken. James, the blacksmith and Henry the carpenter looked curiously at the arrows. Ted and Marie didn’t know what to think. The killer looked at last night’s handiwork from a distance, before wandering out from behind one of the buildings to join those already gathered.

Beeston walked up to the clothed figure with the painted head, still rubbing the rather large lump on the back of his head. He looked at the painted face which had an uncanny resemblance to LaCoine. Who painted at the fort? Beeston would have to check his notes. Maybe there was a connection there.

He was about to leave when he happened to look down the arm of pincushion man. There tied to the left shirt sleeve was a small peculiar looking tubular bone object with linear incisions on it. Beeston looked closer and then took the object from the sleeve. With his exceptional memory, he turned and casually looked around and finally met the killer’s eyes, watching him.

This bone object with incised lines on it was found at the NWC/HBC Fort Vermilion I site. Its function is a bit of a mystery. We think however, it might have been a Native gaming piece used in the hand gambling game.

Beeston pointed a large, meaty finger at the killer. “You! You did this, didn’t you. I saw this object in your cabin when I interviewed you yesterday. I’ll bet there aren’t many like it in the fort. Where were you last night? The nights before?” Beeston barely finished his sentence when the killer suddenly bolted, bursting through the crowd and running toward the fort gates. With the good Inspector Beeston of the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company in hot pursuit. Beeston, suddenly looking as agile and quick as a deer, had finally found his killer.

…………………

Now, with the information in this story, you should be able to identify the killer.

………………….

Posted on

Beware Those Who Bear ‘Gifts’

Northern Dene winter camp. https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b9/ed/d6/b9edd6e0a3d372eed7fea2d1cda86ec0–ottawa-canada.jpg

“…the beaver does everything to perfection…he makes for us kettles, axes, swords, knives, and gives drink and food.” (Seventeenth century Mi’kmaq hunter commenting on the trade. From LeClercq, Chrestien, 1910. New Relation of Gaspesia: With the Customs and Religion of the Gaspesian Indians, William F. Ganong ed. and trans. Toronto: Champlain Society, p, 277)

University of Alberta, 1970

Harry Reed, first year student at the University of Alberta, sat in class listening to his professor drone on about White contact with Indigenous peoples of Canada.

Finally, an impatient Harry raised his hand. “I don’t understand Professor Langdon. It’s obvious, isn’t it? When Whites came, they brought knives, axes, and guns superior to anything Native peoples had. And the Natives readily accepted or traded for them. What’s so complex and threatening about that?

Professor Langdon stared at Harry, as if he had just grown another head. Instead of answering the question, because the class was just finishing, he motioned to Harry.

“Mr. Reed, perhaps a word with you after class.”

Harry, just fresh out of small town Saskatchewan, groaned inwardly. He had already learned in his short time at the U of A whenever a professor felt you needed more instruction, it meant more reading. Endless reading. Hundreds, thousands of pages of reading.

“Mr. Reed, you’re unconvinced with my lecture?”

“Well, Professor Langdon, when you talk about trade for those fur trade articles, you seem to imply there’s more to the story. How does the acquisition of things change peoples’ lives? Their entire culture?”

“I only have one hour to lecture, Mr. Reed. I can’t elaborate as much as I’d like to on certain subjects. So, to better understand this topic I’d like you to do some extra reading.” With that the good professor gave Harry a list of articles to read.

“And start with this one, Mr. Reed. I’m sure you will find most of the answers there.”

With that Professor Langdon left the classroom, and Harry groaning. ‘More reading.’

Harry looked at the title of the first article his professor suggested. Steel Axes for Stone-Age Australians by Lauriston Sharp. Now just how was reading about stone axes and Australian Aborigines supposed to answer his question about White-Indigenous relations in the Canadian fur trade?

Courtesy, The Beaver, Autumn, 1983, Special Issue. An array of articles used in the Canadian fur trade. Just how quickly Indigenous people adopted these articles and abandoned their traditional technologies, is a matter of debate:

“Our supper was made on the tongues of the wild ox, or buffalo,
Boiled in my kettle which was the only one in camp.”  (Alexander Henry [elder], 1772, among the Blackfoot)

“The Peigan would not, “…kill a beaver or any other fur animal to enable them to purchase an ax or other European utensil….Many families are still destitude of either a kettle or an ax.” (Alexander Henry [younger], 1810, among the Blackfoot)

……………………….

A few days later before his next Anthropology class, Harry read about the Yir Yoront, an Australian stone-age people contacted by White missionaries in the 1930s. Professor Langdon asked him to paraphrase what he learned. And what he learned was quite astonishing:

Stone-age axes made from a stone blade, glued into a wooden handle with tree gum. http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/unrealworld/images/8/8c/Axes6.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20140620100514

The Yir Yoront

The Yir Yoront lived at the mouth of the Coleman River, west coast of Cape York Peninsula, in today’s Queensland, northern Australia.

First studied by Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp in the 1930s, the Yir Yoront were relatively isolated. They maintained an independent economy, supporting themselves entirely by means of their old stone age techniques. However, their polished stone axes were being rapidly replaced by steel axes they acquired from European missionaries.

The Yir Yoront traded for stone axes some distance because local stones for making axes were lacking. Its acquisition, and subsequent production (making the handles and binding axe heads to them with local resins) was the domain of the more prominent Yir Yoront men. The axe therefore was the property of the men, although family members could use it. In short the stone axe, a very important tool for Yir Yoront economy, was connected to both gender and age identity in Yir Yoront society. It’s ownership, and who could borrow it, defined age and gender relationships among the people. And just as importantly its manufacture and use was closely tied to the peoples’ history.

The introduction and eventual adoption of steel axes changed these relationships. Women and children now had direct access to axes and men no longer were able to control either ownership or their use. Men in Yir Yoront society lost their distinct identity and gender relationships began to change. Confusion about sex, age and kinship roles emerged, for the sake of more independence by women. Trading partners were either lost or prestige relations between partners changed and leadership roles changed. And the last effect of the introduction of the steel axe was an emerging deep hatred by some Yir Yoront males for Whites.

Sharp concluded that, “The closed system of totemic ideas explaining and categorizing a well–known universe as it was fixed at the beginning of time, presents considerable obstacles to the adoption of new or the dropping of culture traits. The obstacle is not insurmountable and the system allows for the minor variations, which occur, in the normal daily life. But the inception of major changes cannot easily take place.”

Harry finished reading, surprised that the introduction of a simple metal axe had such a profound effect in other parts of Yir Yoront society in a relatively short time. The light bulb was slowly coming on. Still dim but gaining strength. Harry drew up a graphic summary of what he learned.

This excellent graphic summary of culture change among the Yir Yoront comes from Travis Watkins. I have broken his original into parts for easier reading. http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg

Confluence of the Boyer and Peace Rivers, Northern Canada, 1801

He was known as the Two-Hearts. A powerful leader among his people, the Dene of northern Canada. One heart was for the love and care of his people. The other for his enemies. Including the Whites who were encroaching on this country. His land, his people.

He stood on the edge of the river valley looking down as the White traders built their new house on his lands. They were back. His steely gaze was filled with disdain for the new arrivals. Around his neck hung a dark stone knife and a green stone axe attached to a leather thong. Both were beautifully crafted and rare. Only the Two Hearts knew where to find the grey banded stone or trade for the green stone axes west in the mountains. Among his people he, and a few other elders, was the keeper of the stones.

Local chert biface or stone knife found in the Fort Vermilion area, Alberta, Canada.

As keeper of the stones, he was powerful and revered among his people. Whoever wanted these beautiful knives or axes had to request them from him.

But his power and control of the stone knives and axes was waning. For years now the White traders brought steel knives and axes to his people.

He worriedly watched the traders build their house. The Two-Hearts faced an impasse. A dilemma of considerable proportions. How to protect his people, his lands, his resources, from these Whites, their gifts and pestilence. And how to prevent his neighbors from acquiring those goods, especially the new steel knives, axes, or firearms, thereby increasing their power and diminishing his. There was no easy solution.

Personally he despised the Whites, and everything they brought with them. But many of his people desired these new things. They could not be dissuaded from acquiring the shiny metal pots, the sharp axes and knives. But everything had its price. And what price would his people pay for those objects? By adopting them, gradually the people were losing knowledge of the old ways.

The Two-Hearts’ nephew stood beside him watching. A beautiful stone knife also hung around his neck, given to him by his uncle. He looked down at his knife, and then enviously at some of the metal daggers hanging on the chests of the other men. Traded from another group of Dene downriver.

“You look anxious, Uncle. This is a good thing. They build in our territory. Now we can trade with them directly.”

“You have much to learn, Nephew. This is not a good thing. It only brings grief and uncertainty.” The Two Hearts continued to watch but said no more.

These metal knives, often referred as ‘hand dags’ were a common trade item. They could be used as knives shown here. Or attached to poles and used as lances/spears. https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/605241637405085074/

………………………

John Blackburn, trader for the newly formed XY Company, stood in what would be the new fort compound, beside the river, glaring up at the group of Dene standing on the valley edge. Then he slowly turned towards one of his men with that same scowl, as if he was little better than the Dene. “What the hell are those heathens staring at, Pierre? They don’t trade. They just watch us and do nothing.”

“That’s one of their principle men, Sir. He seems unhappy about something. But I don’t know what. We gave his people gifts. Steel knives and axes. Still he seems reluctant to trade.”

“Well don’t just stand there, Pierre. Go bring him down. Maybe we can get him drunk and he’ll be more cooperative.” Blackburn’s solution to most problems was alcohol.

As soon as those words left Blackburn’s, Pierre bolted up the hill with his translator in tow. As he came near the Dene, he could see the look in their leader’s eyes resembled those of his boss. Hard, dark and menacing.

Pierre turned to his translator. “Tell him that my leader invites him to the fort to talk. To smoke and drink. Tell him we have much in common and the trade could benefit everyone.”

The Two-Hearts listened to the translator. Then he continued to stare at Blackburn below. A few minutes passed. The silence was beginning to affect an already restless Pierre. This meeting was not going well. He was beginning to feel that his words were going to displease both his boss and this Dene man.

Finally, the Two-Hearts turned toward Pierre and his translator. “Tell your leader I won’t meet with him. Tell him to stop giving my people gifts. Those gifts must be given to me and I will give them to whom I choose. If he does not cooperate, there will be trouble. The kind he shouldn’t be looking for.”

The Two-Hearts turned and walked away with his men. Leaving Pierre sputtering.

“But we come in friendship. We can give you great things. Tools superior to yours…” His words were cut off as the Two-Hearts returned. In his hand was his sharp stone knife, which he pressed up against Pierre’s throat holding him with the other remarkably strong hand.

“You think our tools are not sharp enough that they cannot cut.” With that he pricked the frightened French Canadian in the neck with his knife drawing blood.

“Go back to you leader and show him how sharp my knife is. It cuts quite well.” The Two-Hearts let go of the trembling Pierre who rapidly left, his translator trailing after him, telling him what the Two-Hearts had said. Pierre didn’t need translation. He got the message.

Blackburn watched the incident above and had drawn his musket, ready to shoot. But finally Pierre was loose and running and the Dene were gone.

Pierre stopped in front of Blackburn holding his bleeding neck.

“Well, man, what did he say? From here they didn’t look too pleased. Can’t you negotiate anything, Pierre? You seemed to upset him.”

A trembling Pierre finally managed to stammer out the Two-Hearts’ words to Blackburn. An incredulous Blackburn lost his temper. “He what? He threatened me? How dare he threaten me. That soulless heathen! I trade with whom I want, when I want, how I want.”

Then Blackburn kicked at Pierre almost knocking him to the ground. “You useless French scum. You ruined our trading relations. I will trade with and gift any of these primitives whenever I want. That man can’t tell me what to do.”

………………….

The Two-Hearts’ nephew finally reached camp. His hands were bloodied and raw and he was tired from the long journey. He had traveled with his uncle the last two days searching for the rare stones best for making stone tools. His uncle, who had no children of his own, was passing the knowledge of the stones to him.

Some of his friends saw him stumble into camp. Bear Fang shouted out. “Where have you been Two-Minds? Out searching for pretty rocks again. And making stone knives.” The others nearby chuckled.

Two-Minds was not Two-Hearts’ nephews’ real name. His real name, given to hm in a dream, was Standing Elk. His friends started calling him Two-Minds, because he could not decide whether to follow the traditional ways of the Dene, or the new path of his friends.

Bear Fang wasn’t finished. “Well it looks like whatever you made cuts well enough judging by all the blood on you. Why do you continue this foolishness Two-Minds? We can trade for knives and axes and no longer have to make them.”

“It’s my uncle’s wish that I learn the old ways.”

“Your uncle fights change, Two-Minds. These new things the traders bring give us freedom. Now we can acquire them without the meddling of the elders. Or your uncle.”

Two-Minds listened to his friends. Part of him believed them. But, part of him believed his uncle also. He simply shrugged and walked off toward his lodge.

Behind him the snickering and taunting continued. “Try not to cut yourself, Two-Minds. Perhaps you’re not ready for these sharper steel knives.”

This chert, ideal for stone tool making, is known as Peace Point Chert (named after a large prehistoric archaeological site it was found at, near Peace Point, Alberta, Canada). We believe it sources somewhere along the Boyer River. Because of its unique visual qualities it is easily identified from other local cherts. When found in an archaeological context, it allows us to determine either how far people were trading or moving it from this source.

……………………

Blackburn was good to his word. He traded with any Dene who came to the fort with either meat or furs. He gave lavish gifts to any who would only trade with him. And threatened those who would not.

In the Dene camp, the Two-Heart’s watched his nephew cautiously approaching. “He continues to defy you, Uncle. He trades with others of our people and gifts them lavishly.”

The Two-Hearts didn’t answer, only staring at the camp fire. Finally he spoke. “I had a dream the other night, on how to deal with these Whites. I saw smoke and flames approaching the fort. Smoke everywhere and frightened people who do not understand fire. Its power. Its usefulness.” With those words he got up and strode off into the woods toward the fort where the rivers met.

His nephew looked on. Without another word he casually gathered a few men and followed his uncle. As if knowing what was about to happen.

……………………

Blackburn lay in be in his new house, barely awake as dawn approached. Outside he heard shouting. And then many feet running. Then he smelled it. Smoke. He quickly dressed and rushed out the door, into the new spring morning. All around him he could see the fires. One in particular was moving rapidly towards the fort.

“What the hell is going on, Pierre? Where are all those fires coming from? It’s spring. There’s no lightening this time of year.

Pierre, out of breath from running, barely managed a squawk. “I don’t know, Sir. That one there though could burn us down and kill us if we don’t move. It’s coming right at us and moving fast. I think we should leave, Sir. And fast.”

A worried-looking and suspicious Blackburn considered. Why so many fires in the early spring? It just didn’t feel right. He was about to order his men to pack and move down to the river, when suddenly the winds changed. The large-looking fire heading toward them turned on itself and within a half hour was almost burned out.

Everyone sighed with relief, realizing that they were no longer in danger. As the smoke cleared, Blackburn looked up to the valley edge. And there he was standing with some of his men. Watching.

‘Watching what?,’ thought Blackburn? ‘Watching me die?’

Blackburn cursed at no one in particular. “It’s that barbarian. He set the woods on fire and tried to kill us.” Blackburn removed his musket from his belt and was about to shoot at the Two-Hearts, when Pierre finally grabbed his arm.

“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. If you shoot at them they will retaliate. They outnumber us and we will surely die.”

But Blackburn was having none of it. Although he did lower his musket. “They tried to burn us down, Pierre. Those fires were set intentionally. Those ruthless heathens. I want answers, Pierre. Go up there and ask him why he did that.”

At Blackburn’s words Pierre turned pale, rubbing the wound on his neck. ‘No, please, not again,’ he thought. “Sir, perhaps you should send up someone else. I didn’t do so well the first time.”

“Get up there you coward, and deal with him,” roared a red-faced Blackburn.

‘Who’s the coward here. Why don’t you go, Blackburn?,’ thought Pierre. Finally, he reluctantly gathered his translator and trudged up the hill toward the waiting Dene.

The Two-Hearts watched Pierre approach, a slightly amused look on his face. Now wearing a bandana around his neck where he had scratched him with his knife. ‘Maybe this time I’ll hack one of his fingers off,’ thought the Two-Hearts. No. Better not. Violence was not the answer.

Finally Pierre and his translator arrived. The fidgety French Canadian turned to his translator. “Ask them why they set the fires and nearly burned us down.” His translator asked Two-Hearts.

The Two-Hearts turned toward his men, laughing. They talked and laughed more. Finally the translator turned to Pierre. “He says that his people always burn in the spring. To freshen the grasses and burn down the undergrowth. This brings more game to the region. He says if he really wanted to burn down your fort he would have set the fires from another direction.” Then his translator hesitated.

“Well, is there more, Jean Baptiste?”

“He asks why you build in the middle of a forest? Why do you not clear the land around the fort of trees. Fires are dangerous.”

Pierre frowned. Blackburn was not going to like that answer. Blackburn thought everything the Dene did was a threat to him. “Tell him my leader thinks it a threat, and you deliberately frighten off the animals so trading your meat will be worth more.”

The Two-Hearts merely laughed as he heard the translator’s words. “Your leader has quite an imagination. Perhaps too much alcohol makes him think these things. Those fires look worse than they really are in the spring. A lot of smoke. They don’t burn hot and the snow still among the trees slows them down. Tell him that perhaps the next time we will set the fires in a different direction. Unless he stops giving out gifts to my people.”

‘Oh, God. I really don’t want to deliver his words to Blackburn,’ thought Pierre. ‘He will only get angry and kick me again.’

Before Pierre could ask any more questions, the Dene turned and left. Pierre felt like going with them. Better than facing Blackburn. That man was becoming insufferable. He did little else except pray and drink. And not always in that order.

Blackburn, arms folded across his chest, was waiting for Pierre to come down the hill. “He told you what? He threatens me again? I will trade with whom I please. For God’s sake Pierre can’t you get anything right.”

“Perhaps Sir we should deal only with him in the trade. That may appease him. And these shenanigans might stop. He is a powerful man, to be respected.”

“I won’t give into that heathen. He deliberately sets fire to the countryside and then tells us this is normal. He threatens us. We must stand firm. And not put up with this nonsense.”

“But, Sir. It’s a small enough gesture. As long as he brings the trade, what does it matter?”

“He only brings us trouble. Nothing else. I prayed last night, looking for guidance. I was told we must oppose him.”

A confused Pierre wondered, ‘Was it the liquor that spoke? Or the Almighty?’

Blackburn sent out a volley of curses and then stomped back to his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

‘Well some progress,’ thought Pierre. ‘No cuts or kicks this time.’ But he had an uneasy feeling that this was not the end of things. They were playing a dangerous game with these people. Blackburn’s arrogance and stupidity might get them killed.

………………….

A gathering of First Nations men near Fort Garry, Manitoba. The man in front of the group is wearing a trade captain’s coat and hat, in recognition for his trading achievements from the traders. He would also receive gifts of tobacco and alcohol which he then distributed among his followers. A Peter Rindisbacher painting.

The summer rolled on. Most of the Canadians from the little fort were hundreds of miles away, paddling their large freight canoes back to Montreal with their furs. In the fall they would return with more trade goods. Blackburn, who usually went with his men, stayed at the fort and continued to defy the Dene leader. He traded and gave out gifts lavishly with his people, in hopes of attracting more trade.

“There. What do think Pierre? I made two of them trading captains. That should solidify trade in furs and meat for us for the rest of the winter.”

Pierre looked on nervously. He knew enough that the men Blackburn had selected were of minor importance among their people. “Sir, by making them leaders you purposely snub one of their principle men. That could cause more confusion and trouble.”

“Oh come now Pierre. They have no organized system of leadership. There’s no harm in this. And now more of them will have our superior metal knives and axes instead of those stone ones. This can only do good Pierre.”

Pierre remained silent. What could he say. Blackburn was not to be crossed with that temper of his. Only recently he had beaten one of the men for some trivial act of insubordination.

Later. ‘Arrogant bastard. I’ll show him. I’ll trade with whomever I want. He can’t stop me.’ Blackburn was half drunk by now, both slurring his words and his thoughts. Why, he had half a mind to walk into the Dene leader’s camp and shoot him. Fortunately the other half of his mind was not as brave. Instead, he poured himself another drink.

……………………..

It was late fall and the northern winter was fast approaching. Before they reached the camp fire, the Two-Hearts’ nephew said in a low voice. “He still defies you, Uncle. He trades with everyone. Your stone knives and beautiful stone axes are no longer sought after as much. The people have new steel knives and axes. They follow those leaders who now trade with the Whites. Your power and authority diminishes.”

The Two-Hearts ignored his nephew as he continued walking towards the camp fire. Once there he looked at those sitting around it but said nothing. Then he sat, silently looking into the camp fire flames. As if the answers to his problems lay in there somewhere. Finally he spoke.

“I had a dream the other night about the Whites. It told me what must be done.” And then the Two-Hearts told those around the fire about his dream. He was a powerful dreamer among his people. He was also a powerful orator and the people became frightened when they heard his words.

One of the more prominent men, and the Two-Hearts’ strongest adversary, stood and spoke. Often challenging him. “These things the Whites bring us are useful and benefit all. You’re just jealous because now you no longer control who gets the knives and axes.”

Two-Hearts’ nephew was holding his breath, knowing what this challenge meant. He saw the darkness cross his uncle’s face.

There was silence around the fire, as the Two-Hearts remained standing. Staring off, it seemed, into a distant future only he could see. The people waited for him to speak.

Then barely in a whisper he began. “For years I have risked my life visiting our neighbors and setting up trading alliances with them. Yes, I do benefit from those visits. But I take the risks, so I deserve most of the rewards.”

“But that’s my point Two-Hearts. It’s all about you. Some of us would like to trade as well. Be our own men and not always be dependent on your goodwill.”

But the Two-Hearts had just begun. “Let me finish. Those trading relations are important for all of you. They are not just about some pretty stone objects or the red paint I trade with them. Remember that bad winter a few years ago when the snows were deeper than usual and game was hard to find in our territory. Our neighbors to the west kindly allowed us to hunt on their lands. How do you think that happened, Running Otter?”

Many around the fire nodded in agreement. That had been a bad winter. If it weren’t for their neighbors they would have suffered terribly. Even died in the unforgiving northern winters.

The Two-Hearts continued to speak. Again everyone was silent. “Also remember not so long ago, our neighbors to the south became not so neighborly. And violence between us almost broke out. How do you think bloodshed was prevented, Running Otter?”

Again there was murmuring around the fire and heads were nodding. The people remembered. It was the Two-Hearts’ gift-giving and veiled threats that his allies to the west might intervene in the dispute, that prevented further violence.

“If I and a few others are not allowed to control the trade, then these alliances will fall apart. And our people will suffer. In these matters I must lead and you must follow, Running Otter. Your skills as a great hunter and our hunt leader are admirable and I always follow you on the hunt. But I am the keeper of the stones and trade. I must control those, or we are doomed.”

Running Otter reluctantly nodded in agreement. As did many others around the fire.

The Two-Hearts looked solemnly at his people. “And has it dawned on any of you what would happen if these traders move past our territories further upriver and start trading with our sometimes not so friendly allies. Arming them with muskets.” There were gasps among the people. No one had really thought of that.

“We must control the trade and where these Whites can build. Or we face even greater problems in the future.” Finally the Two-Hearts sat down. He had made his point.

Two-Hearts’ nephew sat in silence, shocked. What his uncle said made a lot of sense. He looked down at his stone knife hanging on his chest. A little more proud of it now than a few moments ago. Some of his friends were looking at him with slightly more respect.

Later when everyone had left, Standing Elk spoke. “But, Uncle, if we do what you propose they could starve.” He listened incredulously as the Two-Hearts spoke.

“They don’t listen. They threaten our way of life. Our beliefs. Belittle our leaders. Get our people drunk to take advantage of them in the trade. Trade should be an honorable undertaking. These Whites are not honorable. Especially that evil leader of theirs. Did you notice even his men don’t like him. They fear him. There’s no honor in that man. He must learn a hard lesson.”

“As you wish, Uncle. Some say he prays to a God like you, Uncle. For guidance. And sees things to lead him on the right path. Our people talk. He wears a special symbol around his neck that he prays to. The people wonder if it might be more powerful than your dreams.”

The Two-Hearts merely chuckled. “I think his God mocks him. If he tells him to hoard his wealth, scorn others, and respect no one. Surely that is not what his God is telling him. That is what his black heart is telling him.”

Standing Elk looked at his uncle. This time in a different light. All he gained in trade, he gave away to his people. He followed when he felt it was not his place to lead. He respected those in the band with knowledge he did not have. Many of these things were changing among the people.

“I have noticed changes among our people, Uncle. Some of them are not good. Before we had hunt leaders. Men who knew the hunt path. Now everyone can be one making a terrible racket with those muskets, driving off the animals. It becomes harder and harder to find game. These Whites require so much meat. Our game animals dwindle.”

His uncle sighed. “Yes, we trade ourselves to starvation. Tomorrow we will carry out our plan. The snows will soon come.” The Two-Hearts seemed to be talking almost to himself, as if in a dream. But his nephew knew. Soon it would begin.

…………………..

“…the greatest philosophers, as they never give themselves the trouble to acquire what they can do well enough without.” (Samuel Hearne among the Denesuline (Chipewyan), c.1771, and their attitude towards European trade goods)

Pierre stumbled into Blackburn’s cabin, coughing and hacking, only to find him sitting by the fire, drink in hand, eyes barely open.

“They’re at it again, Sir. The entire country around us burns for miles. All the winter meadows have been fired. It will be hard to find game nearby.”

Blackburn sat up, suddenly somewhat sobered by Pierre’s words. “It’s that damned leader of theirs, isn’t it? He’s at it again. That scoundrel! Thank God we have good hunters. Even if the game is further away, we should still manage.” Blackburn took another drink, satisfied that the problem was solved.

Pierre didn’t move. Blackburn finally looked at Pierre, only to see the young French Canadian turning somewhat pale in the late afternoon light. “Well, what is it, man? What else is wrong?”

Pierre stood near the cabin door as if his next words might require a rapid exit. “Well, Sir, it seems our fort hunters have disappeared. We don’t know where they’ve gone.”

Now the wobbling, crimson-faced Blackburn was started shouting. “What do you mean they’ve left, Pierre? We hired them for the winter to supply us with game. They just can’t leave. Without my permission.” Blackburn stared at Pierre, waiting for some sort of answer that would remedy this problem.

“It seems, Sir, the entire band has moved further west up the river. Their leader convinced them to follow him. There won’t be much game here this winter and none of the Dene will hunt for us.”

“We treated those devils well enough, Pierre. What else do they want?”

“Apparently their leader feels slighted by you, Sir. It might have been better to respect him and trade through him, Sir.”

Blackburn took a chair and threw it at Pierre. “Get the hell out of here you idiot. Don’t you dare tell me what we didn’t do right. I don’t respect those savages, especially their leader. Tell the men, that they must hunt this winter. It shouldn’t be that difficult. If those savages can do it.”

Pierre left. Rather rapidly before another chair came flying his way. Not just his head was shaking. Blackburn did not know the half of it. This half-wit leader of theirs thought hunting was easy? Just moving around in the northern winters was hard enough. They were about to die. And all Blackburn did was sit there and drink and rage. And pray to a God for guidance, whom Pierre felt, he was not listening to.

………………….

It was nearly the end of February. The north was freezing cold, the temperatures sometimes so unbearable to even go outside. Blackburn woke up in his cabin. He could see his breath in the dawn light in the cold room. The cabin’s fires had burned down to embers giving off little heat.

As he tried waking up, he sensed something was wrong. There was an eery silence outside this morning. By now, he should have heard more noise as his men awoke and the little fort came to life.

‘God I’m hungry. I could eat my boots right now,’ thought Blackburn. He and his men hadn’t seen any fresh meat for weeks and were down to their last rations. The hunting had been poor and his men really didn’t know how to find the game without the help of the Dene.

‘Why is it so quiet out there? What are those lazy men of mine doing?’

Now fully awake Blackburn rushed out the cabin door only to be greeted by a low rustling of the trees as a slight breeze blew through them. And bitter cold. He saw no one. He heard no one.

“Hello. Anybody hear me? Where are you, you lazy scoundrels? This is no time for tricks.” Nothing.

A frightened Blackburn started running from cabin to cabin frantically searching for his men. They were gone. Not a single man to be found anywhere in the fort. Even the sled dogs were gone.

He rushed into Pierre’s cabin. There on the table was a letter peeking out from under a few beaver parchment skins.

Dear Sir,

We begged you to leave this place before we all perished. But you obviously had other ideas about our welfare. So we decided to leave for Fort Chipewyan before disaster befell us.

We have taken most of the green beaver parchments which we now eat to stay alive. We have left you some on the table. They are best boiled then chewed thoroughly before swallowing.

Pierre La France

An enraged Blackburn crumpled up the letter and threw it at the wall.

He rushed out the door into the fort courtyard, screaming. “You cowards. You worthless scum….” Blackburn suddenly stopped screaming as he noticed movement on the ridge above the fort. There in the distance he thought he saw people. A chill, even colder than this northern morning, ran through him. The Dene were watching. He was all alone. Perhaps best not to scream too loudly lest the wrong people hear him. He was about to turn when he saw the Dene leader raise his stone knife in his hand, as if saluting him. Blackburn quickly hurried back into his cabin, shutting the door to keep out the cold. And the reality of his situation.

The Two-Hearts watched the fort. He had seen Blackburn’s men leave. He saw the helpless Blackburn screaming his lungs out in anger. Would this lesson be enough? For now, perhaps. But this was not the end. Only the beginning of a long struggle his people faced. He turned and left an enraged Blackburn preparing his parchment skin breakfast.

……………………..

It was a hot, dry summer. They ran for their very lives. Through the bush and down the trails until they reached the river, and crossed. To safety from the raging fire. They had left everything behind in their hunting camp. Occasionally the fires in the northern forests obeyed no one, only the laws of Nature.

“We’ve lost everything. Not even a knife among us. We are a many days travel away from our people. And the traders have left.” Bear Fang, their young hunt leader looked rather frightened and forlorn as he spoke of their plight. The group of young Dene hunters stood soaked on the river bank, realizing all too well what could happen.

Standing Elk, also with the hunters, strode towards the river edge and started searching. Then he picked up some stones and was soon banging away, fashioning something from them. The others walked over and looked. Finally Bear Fang asked, “What are you doing Two-Minds? This is hardly a good time to be playing with rocks. We are in trouble.”

Standing Elk looked up and simply said. “I’m making a stone knife, Bear Fang. Without knives we can’t do much of anything. You all need to make a knife so we can fashion other weapons. Soon. Or we will die.”

The others looked nervously on. Then, at one another. “But Two-Minds, we don’t know how to make stone knives. We didn’t need to know since we got our metal knives. Our fathers or mothers didn’t teach us.”

“There’s always a need to know, Bear Fang. Here I’ll show you how it’s done.”

…………………………..

“Of what use to us are the skins of beavers, wolves, and foxes? Yet it is for these we get guns and axes.”

(First Nations leader Kootenae Appee talking about trade. From David Thompson’s Journals, c.1809. 1971. Travels in Western North America, 1784-1812, edited by Victor G. Hopwood, p.269. Macmillan of Canada, Toronto).

EndNote:

Although a work of historical fiction, parts of this story are based on historic facts.

The Yir Yoront are real and so is Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp. Her study has become a classic piece of anthropological fieldwork still used today. Here is the link for those of you who are interested: http://web.mnstate.edu/robertsb/380/steelAxes.pdf.

At the time of contact First Nations people throughout the Americas had well-established trade networks. Trade, therefore, was not something foreign brought by Whites. In prehistory there is little evidence of these networks except for the most durable items. Rocks, such as nephrite from British Columbia found their way along the Peace River as far as the current community of Fort Vermilion. And perhaps further. Other exotic rocks, from other areas of Canada and the United States, are present in Alberta prehistoric assemblages.

The study of culture contact is difficult and controversial. And often emotionally and politically charged. As the historic quotes used in this story show, the fur trade documentary evidence, mainly compiled by Whites, is conflicting and contradictory. If you search the historic documents long enough you can support just about any argument you choose – Indigenous people welcomed the trade, despised the trade, or were indifferent about it. And attempts at understanding how contact and trade affected various parts of Indigenous society are even more difficult. We do not have the advantage Lauriston Sharp had, of being there to carefully document it.

We also cannot generalize from the Yir Yoront example and assume it was similar everywhere in the world. We do know that trade and contact between North American Indigenous peoples and Whites occurred. Precisely how and with what intensity it affected traditional ways is often very difficult to document. White traders made trade captains of people who brought in the most furs, often unknowingly (or knowingly) undermining traditional Indigenous politics and social relations. European goods eventually replaced traditional goods and technologies. But how quickly and at what rate is difficult to ascertain. Some of these material things likely had little impact on people, being simply incorporated into traditional ways. Others, like the horse, firearms, alcohol, and disease, had profound impacts on Indigenous culture.

The Boyer River, Fort Vermilion region, was one of the first areas along the Peace River to be occupied by fur traders. That trade between the local Dene population and the different Companies was not always smooth, is understatement. And certainly, trade was not always welcomed by everyone in the Native community, or carried out fairly by the White traders. There was lots of politics involved on both sides and almost outright violence when Companies did not listen to the local Dunne za. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s remarks, in 1802, about the turmoil caused when the XY Company tried moving up the Peace River is telling:

“Mr. Leith and his Canoes was obliged to return down the River again as the Natives this Morning told them if they offered to go up the River they would kill them. Their reason was owing to some disorder that came amongst these Country people this summer which killed 10 of them, and they said it was the New Co. [XY Company] that brought bad medicines amongst them which was the occasion of the deaths.” (from the Journal of Thomas Swain, October 6, 1802, HBCA B224/a/1; brackets mine)

North West Company policies towards First Nations people were often brutal. They threatened and bullied the people if they did not trade. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s Native hunters abandoned him, forcing him and his men to eat the green beaver parchment skins to stay alive. The rival NWC had a lot to do with their predicament, and either drove off his Native hunters, or bribed them to not work for the HBC.

The superiority of one article or technology over others is the single-most used explanation for the acquisition of European goods in the Americas by Indigenous people, and elsewhere. In some ways steel knives and axes were better than Indigenous equivalents. But, there was always a trade-off. Abandonment of traditional technologies assumed constant supply of European goods. That was not always the case. What happened when your musket broke or you ran out of ammunition, and at early contact your source of repairs or supplies was thousands of miles away? As a mobile hunter-gathering society just how much material culture could you carry around without changing transportation methods?

Years ago I had a photograph of an Inuit hunter on his snowmobile heading out onto the ice pack to hunt. Behind the snowmobile he pulled a sled with his sled dogs in it. I can’t find the original so the one below will have to do. The message the image depicts is clear. Rapid abandonment of traditional technologies was not wise. Best to always have a back-up plan. You can always return to camp with your dogs if the snowmobile breaks down. Or, if worse comes to worse, you can eat the dogs to survive. Not snowmobile parts which are even less nutritious than those green parchment skins the traders were forced to eat.

Courtesy of https://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/video/sled-dogs-ride-in-crates-pulled-by-snowmobiles-stock-video-footage/572318125

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The ‘Emperor’s’ Book of Reckoning

Sir George Simpson, Governor, the Hudson’s Bay Company (1820 – 1860) and British viceroy of Rupert’s Land.

Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way, you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. (Mathew 7:1)

She was a young woman. Quite beautiful except for her now tear-streaked face. Sitting in her chair by the large hearth, wringing her hands in grief and sorrow, screaming hysterically. “That bastard! That rotten, inconsiderate cold-hearted bastard! Leaving me, like this. Where is his compassion, his conscience?”  

Her mother looked on with concern and unease, trying to think of something to say to console her distraught daughter. “Well, at least the child will be looked after when born. And he found you another partner to care for you.” After hearing them, her words sounded hollow. Her daughter continued wailing, hoping somehow that it would undo what could never be undone.

……………………

Meeting of dog brigades of in northern Alberta. (Frederic Remington; Glenbow Archives NA-1185-10)

Peace River, Canada 1823

George Simpson, now Governor of the Northern Department of the Hudson’s Bay Company, was bundled up in his toboggan barely visible under the furs. It was a cold, bright sunny day. His dog team, along with two others skimmed over the ice of the Peace River at breakneck speed, towards the little HBC post of Fort Vermilion.

Simpson loved adventure. Especially travel. And to do everything fast. This was almost more exhilarating than taking the freight canoes through the river rapids with those seemingly never-tiring French Canadian voyageurs.

He watched the barking and chorusing sled dogs straining on their harnesses. Occasionally the wolves along the shoreline joined in, creating an eery cacophony of sound up and down the river valley. There was nothing like a good dog team to get you from one place to another in the northern winter. Horses, at this time of year, were useless.

Simpson’s face felt numb from the cold, but he was mostly warm and comfortable in the toboggan. Except for his feet. No matter how many pairs of socks he put on, his feet froze in his leather boots. A rather poor choice of footwear for northern Canada.

The men and the dogs had not eaten properly for three days. Simpson pushed the pace, severely fatiguing everyone in the party. “I hope their fireplaces are hot, so I can thaw out my bloody feet. They feel like blocks of ice,” muttered Simpson to no one in particular.

The new Governor was a brilliant administrator and manager of people. Born in Scotland, in 1786, out of wedlock and raised by an aunt, Simpson was new to the country and the fur trade. To be successful, he was bound and determined to see what he ruled, first-hand.

“Where are we John? I see nothing but endless snow, ice, and trees. Are there animals here, humans?”

His Metis dog team handler, John, was running beside the team, dressed in thin layers of clothing, as if this was a mild spring day. He managed to say a few words and still maintain his pace. “Around the next bend up there and we should see Fort Vermilion, Governor.”

“Jesus, John, how in the hell would you know that? Every new bend looks like the last one we came around.”

John had already answered hundreds of similar questions. Simpson had an incredible sense of curiosity and energy. “That’s my job, Sir, to know every bend of this river, so we don’t end up in the middle of nowhere freezing our asses off and starving to death.”

Simpson’s laughter shot clouds of hot breath into the air that instantly froze. He made a mental note about John, which he would later write down in his employee ‘Character Book’: ‘A good man, simple, hardy and forthright.’ And, Christ could the man run, seemingly for miles with his dogs, never tiring or complaining. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as Simpson.

Simpson noticed there was a bit of friendly competition between the dog team handlers. Proud of their skills, and their dog teams, they pushed one another to the limits of endurance. Suddenly the men stopped their teams just before rounding the bend. They decked out the dogs in fine blankets, and standing irons with bells, ribbons and colored thread attached to them, before heading to the fort.

“Why the name Fort Vermilion, John? I thought this was called LaFleur’s Post.”

“When the Canadians were in charge it was called LaFleur’s post, Sir. But Colin Campbell, the clerk now in charge, renamed it after the red paint that the local Dunne-za make from the local earth and stone. And the vermilion paint we use for the buildings and the trade.”

Finally, the teams rounded the bend of the river. And there in the distance sitting on the edge of the west bank, stood Fort Vermilion, the visible part of its buildings brilliantly lit red in the sunlight. ‘OK. So that’s where it gets it’s name. The red fort!,’ thought Simpson.

“John, why the red paint? That’s a lot of work and waste of money.”

“The Natives like it, Sir. It demonstrates prosperity and prestige. They put high value in it.” Simpson always marveled at the lengths his traders went to impress the Natives. ‘Well now that we control the trade these excesses must stop,’ he thought.

The dog teams pushed the pace even harder as they neared the fort. The Governor put his money on John’s team. His man wasn’t about to lose the race. They had traveled ten days from Fort Chipewyan. Nearly 300 miles. ‘Incredible, just incredible!’ “Faster John, faster…”

…………………………………..

Colin Campbell sat by the fire, awaiting the governor, contemplating his future. As clerk, in charge of Fort Vermilion, he was writing his annual report. His prospects were grim. The fort was in bad repair, the palisades rotting and falling over, and some of the buildings needed to be replaced. While the bright paint covered the blemishes, the place was rotten on the inside.

Campbell was nervous, having trouble focusing on his report. What would the new Governor think of the fort? Or of him? He was a former North West Company man, having served at English River and recently at Fort Dunvegan further upriver. Born in 1787, Campbell was no older than the man who he was about to meet. What he and his colleagues wondered was how Simpson had become Governor, having virtually no experience in the fur trade, or knowledge of the country.

Campbell’s Metis wife Elizabeth, three daughters and his son, were with him. She was in her early thirties, quite striking. Through marriage with Elizabeth (McGillivray), Campbell was well placed in the former North West Company. Promotion was relatively quick. But, now this merger with the British changed things. Marriage and relations in the new Company mattered less. It seemed competence and hard work mattered more.

Elizabeth saw the look on her husband’s face. “You worry too much Colin. You are hard-working, competent and a good leader. These are all things the new Governor admires.”

“Well, I hear things, Elizabeth. The new Governor is tough. Old Company family connections no longer matter. I hear he carries a large book with him with the name of every employee in it, their worth, and what he intends to do with them.”

Elizabeth left him to his writing, shaking her head. But, she too heard rumors of a different kind, that were equally alarming. Especially if you were of Native descent, and a woman. The man already had reputation. While she feigned surprise at her husband’s concern, she realized they had to be careful. The all powerful ‘Emperor of the Plains’, as some people were already calling him, held their future in his hands.

Campbell returned to his journal and continued writing. There was so much to worry about:

“The advantages of this place are very few over any other except it is that ground is Tilled for our Gardens and being a critical place for the Natives to bring in their find.

The disadvantages rise from the exhausted state of the country in Larger Animals which renders it very difficult to procure Fresh meat upon which the people of the establishment have been hitherto chiefly fed.”

There was loud knock on the door. Campbell got up and went to the door, thinking about how much had changed since he had come to the Peace country. What would the new Governor think?

He opened the door and one of his men stood there. “He comes, Sir. We see the dog teams in the distance on the ice. Should we load the muskets and give him a loud welcome?”

“Yes, let’s give Mr. Simpson a hearty northern welcome. Well, as hearty as we can muster without a proper cannon to really shake the valley.”

Simpson saw the people lined up along the bank, looking down at his party. Suddenly the men pointed their muskets in the air and sent off a volume of gun fire whose sounds echoed up and down the valley. There was shouting and laughter as the teams came to a halt beneath the bank. They were warmly greeted by everyone.

“Welcome, Sir. I hope you had a pleasant enough trip, although the journey is long and arduous.” Campbell helped Simpson out of his toboggan. Simpson, and the men with him, looked haggard and hungry. The man could barely walk on those frozen feet of his. The dogs seemed content enough, but they too were suffering from the lack of proper food and rest. A few were a little foot-sore.

“Campbell, good to see you. Is there ever enough food in this country? I’m famished.”

“One of the scourges of this country now, Sir. However, Sir, we have gathered enough food to make sure you and the men will get a proper meal and provisions to get you up the river. The Canadians chose this place wisely. When all else fails, we have enough produce from the gardens, especially potatoes, to survive.”

“Thank you, Campbell.” Simpson’s eyes wandered around the little fort, sizing up the employees. Campbell noticed that he was eying the women as he talked to the men. As soon as they looked his way he turned away. He disregarded them, as if they did not exist. ‘Strange,’ thought Campbell. From what he heard, the Governor had affairs with Native and Mixed-blood women. There were already rumors of illegitimate children.

Across the fort, Landrie’s, Grigoni’s, Piche’s, and Errand’s wives watched as the Governor talked to their husbands.

“Bit of a stuck-up prick, isn’t he,” remarked Isobel, Louis Landrie’s wife. “Can’t even come over here and say hello. What’s his problem anyway?”

“I hear he does not favor Company men taking wives and having them live at the forts. And, he has no use for Native or mixed-blood women, except of course to bed them whenever he pleases. Then he gets rid of them. A real piece of work, that one!” Sarah, Francois Piche’s wife, was a fiery one. Her beauty hid well that fierce temper of hers. Which had once led to throwing her husband off the riverbank because he gotten too drunk.

“We could ignore him and not serve him food or help him,” retorted Isobel. “That would show him the importance of women here.”

“Perhaps,” exclaimed Sarah. “But it might also make him look unfavorably on our men, and that would not be good for their future with the Company. We must be careful not to displease him. I understand he writes down the characteristics of his employees in a large book. To remind him about their abilities and future with the Company.” Not only was Piche’s wife beautiful, but highly astute about their dilemma.

“And look at those boots he wears. At this time of year? I’m sure his feet are frozen solid. That must be extremely uncomfortable if not outright painful.”

“How long is he staying”?

“Not long,” explained Elizabeth, who had just joined the women. “Three or four days at most. Once rested his party will continue upriver to visit the other forts.” Elizabeth too had felt the Governor’s coolness toward her, although he seemed to have little trouble watching her when she was not looking.

“Where is he staying Elizabeth?” Sarah seemed more than a little curious about the new Governor.

“He has a cabin to himself. Just off our cabin and trading room. Sufficient space and a fireplace as well.”

“Perhaps an opportunity will arise where we can pay our regards to the new Governor. Without putting ourselves or our men under his suspicions.”

Elizabeth turned and spoke, a worried look on her face. “Or, better yet perhaps we can show the new Governor how valuable we are to the Company. Let’s sew him a pair of winter moccasins so he doesn’t freeze his feet. If we work together, we should get them done before he leaves.” She looked expectantly at the others, who nodded in agreement.

………………………………

Simpson sat by the fire in his cabin reading Campbell’s annual report. As he read, his thoughts wandered to the fort women, and his latest little tryst with Mary. Well, he’d cleaned that mess up, but it would cost him. The child had to be taken care of. It was worth it. He couldn’t be tied down with a wife and child, so this way was for the best. It was slightly awkward, but no one would dare challenge him.

Simpson returned to Campbell’s report, still thinking about the women he met today. ‘I wonder which one will warm my bed?’ He would ask Campbell about that and put a little pressure on the man. Where was he anyway?

There was knock on Simpson’s door. After a few seconds, without waiting for an answer, in strode Campbell holding two cups and a bottle of brandy. He pulled up a chair by the fire and sat down, eying the report in Simpson’s hand. And also, nervously glancing at Simpson’s open character book on the table.

“Evening Sir. I see you have been reading my annual report.”

“That I have Campbell. A well thought out piece of work, and while I share your concerns, I have some of my own. But that can wait. What have you mind for the coming days?”

Campbell had talked to Elizabeth about Simpson’s stay. They needed to keep his mind on the trade, not the women. Things could get out of hand and some of the women were scared. Except Sarah. She had that gleam in her eye. Like the time she threw her husband off the riverbank. And that also scared the women.

“Well Sir, I thought we would go out to the hunting camp, so you can see the country firsthand and how hard it is for our hunters to acquire game.”

Simpson nodded seeming less than enthusiastic. “Yes, Campbell, a good idea. It gives me first-hand knowledge of the state of the country.”

“And Campbell. Make the necessary repairs to the fort, as you suggest in your report. It looks a little ratty up close despite that paint. Some of these buildings are ready to fall down on your heads.”

“And one last thing Campbell. What about these women running around the fort? Are any of them from the Native bands? Marriage to such women would greatly benefit the trade. The Canadians used that strategy all the time.

“Sir, the Dunne-za do not share their women with us, or with the Canadians before us. They are reluctant to form alliances.”

“Then bribe them with more trade goods. These alliances are integral to our relationships with these people. No wonder they don’t work for us.”

Campbell nervously cleared his throat. “I will do my best, Sir, but I seriously doubt it will work.”

Simpson frowned. “I suppose Campbell but try to keep the costs down as much as possible with the married women at the forts. We can’t have women and children eating up the profits. And, are there any free women at the fort? I could use a ‘little brown’ right now. After all it’s been a long journey, Campbell. Maybe one of the men’s wives is free, if he were at the hunters’ tents? It’s your job, Campbell to look after my needs. Is it not?” As Simpson talked he was casually tapping his fingers on his character book.  

Campbell did not miss Simpson’s less than subtle threat. This was what he was afraid of. “It’s late tonight, Sir. Perhaps tomorrow something can be arranged.”

Simpson idly nodded in agreement, but he was not pleased. The little Emperor was flexing his muscles and living up to his name. There was nothing Campbell could do to stop it.

Campbell was shocked by the governor’s words. What he had heard seemed to be true.  Simpson considered Native and Mixed-blood women nothing more than alliance makers and bed warmers and treated them accordingly.

Simpson sensed his clerk’s unease but seemed untroubled by it. “Now, one more good shot of brandy and a long pipe of tobacco, Campbell. Then I think it’s time to conclude the business for tonight. If we are to hunt tomorrow I need a good night’s sleep. What say you?”

Campbell said little, visibly relieved that tonight a calamity had been avoided. But what about the next few nights? He sighed, grabbing the bottle of brandy and poured a liberal quantity into their cups. Then he lifted his cup, “To the trade, Sir. May it prosper under your guidance.”

They smoked and drank in silence, each contemplating the other’s words. And each wondering what the next few days would bring.

……………………………………….

It was dawn. The mercury in the fort thermometer had disappeared in the glass bulb. The smoke from the cabin chimneys hung in the morning air, as if frozen in place. The fort’s inhabitants began to stir.

Sarah, assigned to the care of the Governor, was in his quarters, starting the fire in the hearth. His breakfast sat on the table.  

 Simpson, still in bed, opened one eye and looked around. The other was frozen shut, having teared up during the night. His vision was giving him trouble again. He liked what he saw through his open bedroom door. Even with one eye. She was quite lovely. That Campbell had come through after all. ‘I’ll write a good note about him for this,’ thought Simpson.

Outside Louis Landrie’s wife, Isobel, was just going by Simpson’s cabin to fetch some wood, when she heard the shouting. Then suddenly, a red-faced Sarah came storming out of Simpson’s cabin. Next came Simpson, stepping to the door, half dressed.

“What happened Sarah? You look quite distraught this morning.”

“It’s nothing Isobel. The Governor was not too pleased with his breakfast. I explained, in rather forceful terms, that this was not London, and I couldn’t find any freshly made meat pies.” With that Sarah, hurriedly walked away to her cabin with an unbelieving Isobel worriedly looking after her.

‘A little testy,’ thought Simpson. ‘But they all come around when I threaten them about their husbands’ future with the Company. What does her husband do anyway? Probably just some half-wit French Canadian labourer.’ Then Simpson saw another one of the fort women looking at him, and hurriedly closed the door behind him.

……………………………………………..

While Simpson and Campbell journeyed to the hunting camps with their dog teams, the women met. The chatter was light as they worked on Simpson’s winter moccasins. But Sarah seemed distant and in deep thought. “What’s wrong Sarah?”, asked Elizabeth. “Worrying about your man in the woods. I wouldn’t. He knows what he is doing.”

“That’s not the man I am worried about, Elizabeth.” She told the others about Simpson’s behavior at breakfast. “What am I to do? He is the governor after all. Any ill-intent toward him and I may get Francois into trouble. I’m stuck in a very disagreeable spot.”

The other women continued working, but now with concerned looks on their faces. Elizabeth tried to reassure Sarah. “Well, he’s only here for a few more days, and then we will be rid of him. Hopefully for good. But, in the meantime what do we do? How do we keep him from making more advances on Sarah?”

“I told him I would make his supper tonight. I had too because he threatened to write some nasty things about Francois in that bloody book of his.” Sarah seemed ready to explode.

The other women considered Elizabeth’s question. “Well, I’d like to cut off that all-too eager pecker of his. And feed it to the dogs. Maybe he could have an accident. Fall down the riverbank and hurt himself. You know how dangerous that bank is in the winter. One wrong step and away you go.” Isobel was always the brave and rather brazen one in the group.

“No. We must put him out of commission, but not harm him. Put him in a spot where the last thing he will think about is chasing women.” Elizabeth looked around the group for ideas.

“Maybe we could lace his food with something to make him sick. That would stop him in his tracks. He’d spend most of his time in the outhouse, where he belongs.” Sarah looked expectantly at the group.

Finally Elizabeth spoke up. “No. These men are already weak. The last thing the Governor needs is to be shitting himself for the next few days. He has a long journey ahead of him. I have a better idea. We will give Mr. Simpson a true Fort Vermilion send-off.” She gathered the women around and in a rather hushed voice told them her plan.

……………………………….

Simpson was exhausted. Just back from a day’s hunting with the men. His feet were frozen again. He sat by the fireplace trying to thaw them out. ‘How on earth do they survive in this county? Brutal! Just brutal.’ He now understood better the hardships these people faced.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ thought Simpson, ‘Maybe a little comfort after a hard day’s work.”

Before he could answer in stomped Sarah with his supper. She began to prepare it on the hearth. She said nothing, barely even looking at the Governor.

Simpson asked, “Do you have a name? What do I call you? What is your husband’s name? I understand he is at one of the hunting camps?”

Sarah took her time answering. This was the hard part. Would he check? No, she thought. He has other things on his mind. “Marie, Sir. My husband’s name is Ignace Lavallee, from Lachine, Quebec.”

The Governor nodded. So far so good. He would write that name down in his book. Say something flattering about the man. Supper was ready and they ate mostly in silence.

“Well, let’s have a bit of port then. Perhaps then we can get to know one another better.”

Sarah shuddered. ‘Oh God, help me. I hope he falls for this.’

Suddenly she began to giggle. Seemingly at the Governor. Simpson looked up in surprise. “What is it Marie? Is something wrong? Are you amused by me?”

Sarah became slightly coy. “Nothing Sir. It’s just your teeth…”

Simpson rose slightly embarrassed and fetched a mirror. Yes. There was some food sticking to them and they were a slightly reddish color. ‘Must be the port,’ he thought.

“If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll just freshen up a bit and clean my teeth.” He went into his bedroom.

It was dark in the room and in his haste, the Governor did not light a candle. He knew where everything was that he needed.

Simpson was a fastidious man, in both clothing and personal hygiene. Because of his vast traveling he was exposed to new fashions and methods of keeping one’s self looking the part of the Governor. Well groomed and clean. He had just acquired a few fine new bone toothbrushes, with stout boar’s hair bristles, before he left for his journey.

Bone toothbrush, found at NWC/HBC Fort Vermilion I (c.1798-1830).

Simpson searched for his cup of water, his toothbrush and toothpaste, applied the toothpaste to the brush and started to brush his teeth. The paste seemed a little more gritty than usual, but Simpson was tired. And eager to get to know this Marie better. As he brushed he relished what was about to come.

‘There that should be better.’ He took the mirror and looked at his teeth. And there to his horror, a face, with bright red lips and red-stained teeth, stared back at him. His teeth now looked like the walls of the fort.

Simpson cursed and rushed into the main room. It was empty. ‘Marie’ was nowhere be seen. He let out a litany of curses before he sat down and opened his book and began to write a new entry:

Ignace Lavallee: A disagreeable man, drunk most of the time and not fit for the trade. Should not be promoted and dismissed at a convenient time.

Simpson cursed again. That name sounded vaguely familiar. He failed to remember that this ‘Ignace’ was already retired. He looked in the mirror and began to wash his mouth. But the more he rubbed the more the pigment spread. The stuff would not come off.

 “Oh damned stain, thou doest not come off….” He swore and rubbed some more but to no avail. Finally giving up he went to his cold bed without a bed partner to keep him warm.

George Simpson, Governor of one of the largest business enterprises on the continent, and one of the most powerful men in North America, had been ‘Ochre’d’!

………………………………….

The next day the Governor stayed in his quarters, feigning sickness and fatigue. His fine bone toothbrush was ruined. He had thrown it into the trash heap, behind his quarters, near the fort gate. He fortunately had packed two others for his trip. He didn’t feel sick or anything. Just embarrassed.

‘That bloody woman. How had she done this’? But, he had no proof and could not confront her. And then all ideas of confrontation completely left him when he saw her husband. The man just returned with a load of meat from the hunting camp,’Marie’ by his side. Effortlessly hefting two enormous quarters of bison onto his broad shoulders and walking to the glaciere to store them. ‘No, best not rile that one up,’ thought Simpson.

……………………………..

The next morning dawned. Again, it was crackling cold, the ice on the great river groaning and snapping. The men and dog teams and were ready to depart, waiting for the Governor. Simpson, dressed and packed, left his quarters, walked out the fort gates and down to the river’s edge. Almost everyone had come out to see him off. He seemed subdued. Not exactly his normal ‘charismatic’ self. A large wool muffler was tightly wrapped around his face, hiding everything but his eyes.

Simpson looked around, as if searching for someone. The so-called ‘Marie’ was nowhere in sight.

Just as he was about to get into his toboggan, Elizabeth, with a few other women approached the Governor. “Sir, I hope your stay at the fort was comfortable and informative. I hope that all your needs were taken care of to your satisfaction.” Simpson thought he saw some of the women smirk a bit at this last comment. He said nothing.

Elizabeth went on. “We noticed on your arrival, that your feet were freezing. To help you in the coming days and weeks we have sewn you a pair of winter boots, so your feet will no longer freeze.”

With those words, Elizabeth handed Simpson a fine pair of knee high, fur-lined leather moccasins, with double-thick soles. They were beautifully decorated with glass beads and delicate colored stitching. But what was most striking about them, was the red pigment that had been worked into the leather. Ochre.

Simpson simply nodded.

Elizabeth spoke again. “Please accept these moccasins as a gift from the women. We like our guests to leave with something that reminds them of Fort Vermilion. What better gift than a touch of ochre, to remind you of this place.” Elizabeth was barely able to hide her laughter.

She watched as Simpson, face covered with his muffler, put on the boots. ‘A touch of ochre indeed, Sir. Which you will be spitting out for a few days,’ thought Elizabeth. Colin Campbell gave his wife a sideways glance but said nothing.

Simpson, although his mouth covered with the muffler, recovered from his surprise and addressed the women. “I will forever remember the women of this fort and the contributions they make to the trade. Especially these red-stained winter boots.” ‘Along with my red-stained mouth.’ With those words, he got into his toboggan, and the teams started up the river, towards Dunvegan. Five days more heavy sledding. But no more cold feet. John and the other dog drivers broke into song as they streaked down the vast frozen river.

Once out of sight of the fort, Simpson smiled but then quickly stifled that smile, remembering the color of his mouth and teeth. He grabbed a handful of snow as they trekked along, putting it in his mouth under his scarf and rinsing. ‘Damn! That was my finest toothbrush too.’ Hopefully, thought Simpson, by the time they reached the next fort the ochre stain would be gone.

And yes. Another fort, another adventure and maybe there he would find a ‘little bit of brown’ to keep him warm. Some habits were just too hard to break for someone of his stature and power.

……………………………………

Fort Dunvegan, Five Days Later

The Governor, tired from the long journey, but now with warm feet thanks to his new moccasins, was sitting at his table in one of the fort quarters. Still thinking about Fort Vermilion and his run-in with that woman, ‘Marie.’ He opened his large character book and was about to write something about Colin Campbell when he noticed an entry of unknown handwriting:

George Simpson: Brilliant administrator, leader, energetic and adventurous. With feet as cold as his heart. Needs to improve his social skills with the opposite sex.

And then, at the very end, a final entry:

Therefore, let us stop passing judgement on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister. (Romans 14:13)

Simpson cursed loudly, ripping out the page and throwing his book on the floor in anger. A curse so loud it was almost heard at the small red fort downriver.

………………………………….

Endnotes

James Fennimore Cooper (The Last of the Mohicans) wrote that history, “…like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness.” The story of Mr. Simpson has two sides. He did great things. He did bad things. Historians and historical fiction writers have written about both.

While this is a story of fiction, it is based on certain facts. George Simpson was an adventurer and brilliant administrator. He led the Hudson’s Bay Company to heights never achieved before. He traveled extensively where he seemed in his best mood. He occasionally suffered from depression and had trouble with his eyes.

He was also a notorious womanizer, having at least five illegitimate children in England and by Indigenous women in Canada. He was cold and indifferent toward Native women, treating them with little respect or regard.

Simpson did have a character book in which he kept a record of the many Company employees under his rule. Their habits, skills, usefulness to the Company and whether they warranted promotion. He did visit Fort Vermilion in 1823, then under the command of Colin Campbell, staying a few days before continuing upriver. He was knighted in 1841 for his involvement in John Franklin’s polar expeditions. He died in 1860 and is buried in Mount Royal Cemetery, Montreal, Canada.

I often wondered about the origins of Fort Vermilion’s name. Did it come from the local ochre the Dunne-za used? Was it the Vermilion paint the Company brought in to trade with them?

Occasionally the traders would put a slip of whitewash or some other color on the mud chinking or logs of fort buildings. The iron content in the local silts and silty-clays, used to make chinking often have a natural reddish hue to them. Below is some chinking from Boyer River Post, just downriver. After being fired it became quite red. The clay chimneys at Fort Vermilion would have eventually turned reddish from the heat, perhaps giving the fort a similar appearance.

Mud chinking from Boyer River Post. A common means of sealing cracks and insulating buildings at many fur trade posts.

Whenever I read Simpson’s journals (and those of other early explorers), it is obvious where the racial intolerance toward Indigenous peoples originated. Simpson was a product of his times. Those in power used race and gender to further their larger socioeconomic agendas. Inequality in the fur trade was often dictated along those lines and in early Canadian society. The taint of those attitudes and perceptions towards others, so deeply embedded in Canadian history, will not be easily removed.