“What was that?”
“Two wolves fighting. Over there.” Cork pointed toward the curve in the shoreline.
“Ah,” Meloux said, as if this was important.
“What does it mean, Henry?” Cork asked.
“In every human being, there are two wolves. One wolf is love, from which all that is good in life comes: generosity, forgiveness, acceptance, peace. The other is fear, which creates all that is destructive: greed, hatred, prejudice, violence. These two wolves are always fighting.”
“Did I really see them?”
“Really?” In the dark, the crescent moon of a smile appeared on the old man’s face. “I don’t know what that question means, Corcoran O’Connor. Are you willing to continue your journey?”
“I am, Henry.”
“Then continue.” He turned as if to leave.
“Wait, Henry,” Cork said. “The two wolves fighting? Which one wins?”
But Meloux didn’t answer. He walked away, and Rainy followed.
Just before sunrise, Meloux and Rainy came again, and Walleye came with them. They brought two folded blankets.
Cork hadn’t slept, or been aware that he’d slept. The night had been long, and his thoughts had drifted widely.
“You are ready for the end of your journey?” Meloux asked.
Although he was weary, Cork replied, “I’m ready, Henry.”
“Help me with the fire, Niece.”
As Cork watched, Meloux and Rainy built the sacred fire, and when the blaze had produced a fine bed of glowing coals, the old man pointed Rainy toward a pitchfork that leaned against a nearby tree. Not far away was a stack of large rocks, which Cork knew were the Grandfathers, the stones that would heat the lodge. Rainy used the pitchfork to place the Grandfathers among the embers. Meloux burned sage and cedar in the fire and used an eagle feather to guide the smoke over Cork to further cleanse his spirit. He gave Cork tobacco, and Cork sprinkled it into the fire, asking the Great Spirit to guide him in his quest. Then Meloux told Rainy to put the blankets on the ground inside the lodge. When all was ready, he said to Cork, “It is time.”
The old man stripped off his clothing, and Cork did the same. Meloux went first and Cork followed. When they were seated on their blankets, Rainy carried in the Grandfathers, one by one, cradled on the tines of the pitchfork, and laid the red-hot stones in the hollow in the center. She used a pine bough to sweep away any lingering ash or embers from the stones. Last, she brought in a clay bowl that held a small dipper and was filled with water. Then she retreated and dropped the flap over the opening, plunging Cork and Meloux into darkness.
During a long period of silence, Cork’s eyes adjusted, and he saw Meloux reach for the dipper and pour water over the stones. Steam shot into the air, and Cork began to sweat, and the old Mide began a prayer, an Ojibwe chant whose words Cork didn’t understand.
The heat increased, and Meloux sprinkled more water on the stones and continued chanting.
After a while, Cork relaxed.
His weariness overwhelmed him.
And he began to dream.
FORTY-SIX
He was outside himself, seeing himself, and he said so.
Thirteen, he said.
And this is what he told.
He’s lying on the sofa in the living room of the house on Gooseberry Lane. He’d thought he would watch television to take his mind off the worry that never left him these days, but he hasn’t bothered to turn the set on. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling and wonders if his father will ever find his cousin Fawn or Naomi Stonedeer, and if he does, will they still be alive. They’ve been taken, abducted, everyone on the rez is sure, but no one has any idea who would do such a thing, and everyone is afraid. The Vanishings. That’s what everyone is calling what’s happened.
The house is quiet. He’s alone. His mother is on the rez with Grandma Dilsey and Fawn’s mother, Aunt Ellie. His father is … well, his father could be anywhere these days. He’s gone a lot. During the day, he leaves in uniform. But at night he leaves in different clothing, and often he doesn’t come back until early morning, when Cork is asleep. But his mother doesn’t sleep, and his father’s sneaking out is something that concerns her. Because of his mother’s worry and because of his father’s inability to find Fawn and Naomi and, most of all, because of his father’s silence and odd behavior that clearly hurt his mother, Cork is angry with him, angry all the time. They barely speak these days. Sometimes Cork sees in his father’s eyes something like regret. And sometimes he longs to tell his father that he’s tired of his own anger and wants to let go of the worry and that all he really wants is for everything to be as it was before the Vanishings began.
He hears the kitchen door open, and a moment later he hears his mother’s voice.
“Damn it, Liam, why won’t you listen?”
“I have listened. To you and all your relatives and every other Shinnob on the reservation. And I understand your concern, and I wish to God that you’d trust me and let me do my job.”
“You leave almost every night and are gone until almost dawn and you won’t tell me where you go.”
“That’s the trust part, Colleen.”
“Trust works both ways, Liam. Tell me what’s going on. Trust that I’ll believe you or forgive you or whatever it takes.”
At first, his father offers only silence. Then he says, “Where’s Cork?”
Cork lies still as death to be sure he can’t be seen.
“I don’t know,” his mother replies. “Out, I suppose.”
“Sit down.”
Cork hears chairs scraping linoleum.
“A while back, Cy Borkman and I responded to a call from Jacque’s in Yellow Lake.”
“That’s a vile place, Liam.”
“Places like that are the reason I have a job,” he says. “It was an altercation over a woman, the kind of woman who looked like she wasn’t particular who shared her bed. I broke up the fight, and ended up escorting the woman to her vehicle. She made me the kind of offer an experienced streetwalker in Chicago might have come up with.”
“Does that happen often?” his mother says, in a brittle tone.
“People try to negotiate with me using all kind of tender. This is about trust, remember?”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“She called herself Daphne, and there was something familiar about her. Then it came to me. Beneath all that makeup and the wig and the slutty clothing was Peter Cavanaugh’s wife.”
“Monique?”
“Yep. Monique Cavanaugh.”
“You must have been mistaken, Liam.”
“No mistake. It was her.”
“Did you let her know you recognized her?”
“No.”
