Читать книгу Totem - Jennifer Maruno - Страница 5

Missing

When Jonny entered the dining hall at breakfast a few days later, everyone stopped eating to stare. He slipped into his usual place on the bench at the wooden table.

“Klahawya, Whiteman,” Sam, the oldest boy in the school, called out to him. Jonny had gotten the nickname the first time he showed up for basketball. They all laughed at him wearing the team singlet with the word “Indian” printed across it. “We thought you ended up in the basement.”

“Bump on the head,” Jonny explained, reaching for a slice of bread. He took a spoon loaded with white lard from the jam jar and scraped it across the bread. With the back of the spoon he smashed it down and spread it around. There was no point telling anyone they’d kept him in the infirmary for a few days because of his dreams. One night it had been a log cabin consumed by fire. Another night it had been a man with a pipe. The smoke drifted upwards to the sky and formed the face of a wolf. Each time he told the nun, she just shook her head and applied another cold compress.

“Your bed wasn’t the only one empty in the dorm,” Sam said, lowering his voice. “Tom-One, Tommy-Two, Billy, and Jimmy took off.”

Jonny put down his spoon. He’d heard those boys whispering their escape plans at night, but hadn’t thought they would really do it. But why now? he thought. They were all going home for the summer in a couple of weeks.

“Father John found out at bed check this morning,” Sam told him, sticking his spoon into the grey mushy porridge they called muckamuck. “One of the canoes is missing.”

Father Paul, the school principal, dragged his heavy, thick-soled shoe, which compensated for a short leg, to the centre of the dining room. His white hair, yellow with oil, stood straight up like a wooden brush. He tapped his cane on the floor and waited. Jonny turned and faced him.

The rest of the boys kept right on eating.

Father Paul lifted his cane and brought it down on one of the tables. The metal plates and mugs clattered.

The room fell silent.

“Four boys ran away last night,” he said, shivering with anger. His hard, dry body rattled as he spat out the words. “All of them were in Dormitory C.”

The whole room turned and looked in the direction of Jonny’s table.

Father Paul lifted his cane and pointed at them. “I know that everyone in Dormitory C knows exactly where those boys are heading.” He waved the tip of the cane at them. “I am not going to send out a search party until I know where to search.” He lowered the cane and rested both hands on it. “Which of you is going to tell me where they went?”

“No one is going to tell Old Stumpy anything,” Sam announced in a loud voice.

Everyone stared down at their plates.

The priest whirled on his good heel and moved to their table. “I will find out,” he threatened as he laid his cane across their table. Jonny stared at the brown spots on Father Paul’s dry, veiny hand, not daring to move. His stained cassock carried the musky smell of old clothes and body odour.

“You give me no other choice,” the priest murmured. “One by one, you will get this across your dirty little knuckles until I find out.”

The bell clanged for class. The boys leapt from their benches to line up at the doorway.

Father Paul placed his cane on Sam’s shoulder as he moved to get up. “Tell me where they went,” he hissed.

Sam looked Father Paul straight in his bloodshot eyes. “Who knows?” he said.

Father Paul placed the tip of his cane into the middle of Sam’s chest and pushed him backward.

Sam bit his lip as the priest prodded him down the hall.

In the classroom, Father Gregory yanked down the large map of the world. He paced in front of it, wringing his thin hands, as the boys opened their notebooks. He picked up the pointer and tapped the map. The boys scribbled the name of the continent. Father Gregory paced from door to window, window to door, his cassock swishing. When he hit Africa for the second time, Jonny knew Father Gregory wasn’t paying any attention to what he was doing.

The classroom door burst open and Father John shoved Sam inside. The tall, lanky boy stumbled to his desk, his eyes burning red. He slumped into his seat, his arms dangling at his sides, and closed his eyes. His bruised, swollen fingers looked like rotting carrots.

Father Gregory put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shrugged it off.

The school bell clanged again. This time it was for work.

Everyone made for the door. Jonny’s class had the job of chopping firewood. Once the truck was loaded, they took it to the dock, where they piled the logs onto the old barge. Built by students, the long flat boat forever needed bailing, which kept the boys busy as they moved across the water. The priests sold the wood in town, but the boys never saw any of the money.

“Jonny,” Father Gregory called. He handed him a rag and a can of brass polish. “Today, you stay inside,” he said. “You can polish door knobs instead of loading the truck.” Father Gregory placed his long, elegant hand on Jonny’s head. “Don’t forget evening prayers,” he said with a wink. “I missed your beautiful blue eyes at Mass.”

There were no door knobs to polish on the second or third floor. In fact, there were no doors at all in the dormitories, nothing but rows and rows of grey-blanketed beds.

Suddenly he heard Father Paul yell, “I’m seventy-two years of age. I plan to finish my career in peace, not chasing dirty Indians through the forest.” The door to his office slammed. Jonny wondered what he was talking about.

Jonny started at the opposite end of the building and worked his way down the hall, making the brass knobs above the keyholes glisten. It wasn’t until he heard the heavy sound of leather boots beating down the stairs that he looked up.

“We need Father Gregory at the dock!” Father John yelled to Jonny as he raced out the front door. Clutching the hem of his cassock with his large, meaty hand, he sprinted across the yard. His great neck bulged red over his white collar.

Jonny threw the rag on top of the can of polish and raced out the back door to the clang of the old metal triangle on the dock. Everyone knew if it rang at any time other than a meal they were supposed to return to the school.

By the time he got to the woodlot, his class was piling into the back of the truck. Father Gregory waved him aboard. When the truck arrived at the dock, Father John stood at the edge holding a wet, limp body.

Father Gregory jumped from the cab and took the sodden boy from him.

Three other boys, wrapped in blankets, sat in the bow of a small outboard boat with their heads down. Father John reached down to pull another boy from the boat, but the Indian fisherman stood in his way.

“Who’s in the boat?” someone whispered.

“It’s the boys from Dormitory C,” someone replied.

“I think Father Gregory has Tommy-Two,” someone else said.

“He doesn’t look so good,” someone whispered.

Everyone heard Father John shout at the fisherman as he waved his arms in the direction of the school. It was clear to those watching he wanted all boys out of the boat and back at the school, but the fisherman refused to hand over the other three. When Sister Theresa approached to plead with him, the Indian motioned her away as well.

“They must have capsized,” one of the boys hissed. “Good thing the guy in the boat was around. That water’s cold.”

The fisherman turned his back on the priest, gunned the motor, and swung the boat in the direction of the mainland, leaving behind a huge spray of white foam.

Father John screamed so loudly after the boys in the boat, his face went purple.

Father Gregory carried the unconscious boy up to the school. Father John followed.

At least the beatings will stop, Jonny thought, as he headed back to his work.

That night, everyone in Dormitory C lay in their beds listening to the sound of the wind. No one whispered about escaping, they just counted the days until the summer vacation.

Jonny’s thoughts drifted to the old man from the woods. He could still feel the touch of his warm, firm hand on his shoulder. He put his hand in the small hole on the underside of his pillow to check on the carved stone that he had given him. That guy was real, he told himself. Those nuns just didn’t want him around. No one wants Indians around.

A huge crack of thunder startled them all.

“The Old Man isn’t happy,” whispered one of the boys.

“Why did you say that?” Jonny asked, sitting upright.

“I don’t know,” the boy replied. “My father says it all the time when it thunders.”

“My Grandmother told me it was Thunderbird beating its wings,” someone added.

“The lightning flashes when it blinks its eyes,” a third voice whispered in the dark.

Jonny lay back down. He had no grandmother to tell him stories like this. A lump rose in his throat. He had no one to tell him anything. At times like this he wondered about his mother. Jonny closed his eyes and for a brief moment saw the smiling face of a young woman with blue eyes and honey-coloured hair. He wished he could remember more.

The rain slashed at the windows. The sound brought back some of the man’s words. “The water crept around the houses. The great poles trembled and groaned.”

Jonny watched the lightning flash across the sky and dance about the mountains. What houses and poles were the old man talking about? He remembered the man’s parting words. How can I ever find Golden Mountain?