My mother is reading to him. She fiddles with her glasses, and hunches over the page; or it looks like hunching. In fact that is just the shape she is now.
My father is grinning, so this must be a part he enjoys. His grin is higher on the left side than on the right: six years ago he had a stroke, which we all pretend he's recovered from; and he has, mostly.
"What's happening now?" I say, taking off my coat. I already know the story, having heard it before.
"They've just set out," says my mother.
My father says, "They took the wrong supplies." This pleases him: he himself would not have taken the wrong supplies. In fact he would never have gone on this ill-advised journey in the first place, or - although he was once more reckless, more impetuous, more sure of his ability to confront fate and transcend danger - this is his opinion now. "Darn fools," he says, grinning away.
But what supplies could they have taken, other than the wrong ones? White sugar, white flour, rice; that was what you took then. Peameal, sulphured apples, hardtack, bacon, lard. Heavy things. There was no freeze-drying then, no handy packaged soups; there were no nylon vests, no pocket-sized sleeping bags, no lightweight tarpaulins. Their tent was made of balloon silk, oiled to waterproof it. Their blankets were of wool. The packsacks were canvas, with leather straps and tump-lines that went across the forehead to cut the strain on the back. They would have smelled of tar. In addition there were two rifles, two pistols, 1,200 rounds of ammunition, a camera and a sextant; and then the cooking utensils and the clothing. Every pound of it had to be carried over each and every portage, or hauled upriver in the canoe, which was eighteen feet long, wood-framed and canvas- covered.
None of this would have daunted the adventurers, however; or not at first. There were two of them, two young Americans; they'd been on camping expeditions before, although at warmer latitudes, with fragrant evening pipes smoked before cheerful blazes and a fresh-caught trout sizzling in the pan while the sunsets paled in the west. Each would have been able to turn a neat, Kiplingesque paragraph or two on the lure of wild places, the challenge of the unknown. This was in 1903, when exploration was still in vogue as a test of manliness, and when manliness itself was still in vogue, and was thought to couple naturally with the word "clean". Manliness, cleanliness, the wilderness, where you could feel free. With gun and fishing rod, of course. You could live off the land.
The leader of the expedition, whose name was Hubbard, worked for a magazine dedicated to the outdoors. His idea was that he and his chum and cousin - whose name was Wallace - would penetrate the last unmapped Labrador wilds, and he would write a series of articles about their adventures, and thus make his name. (These were his very words: "I will make my name.") Specifically, they would ascend the Nascaupee River, said to flow out of Lake Michikamau, a fabled inland lake teeming with fish; from there they could make it to the George River, where the Indians congregated every summer for the caribou hunt, and from there to a Hudson's Bay post, and out to the coast again. While among the Indians, Hubbard planned to do a little amateur anthropology, which he would also write up, with photographs - a shaggy-haired hunter with an old-fashioned rifle, his foot on a carcass; a cut-off head, with spreading antlers. Women with bead necklaces and gleaming eyes chewing the hide, or sewing it, or whatever they did. The Last Wild People. Something like that. There was a great interest in such subjects. He would describe the menus, too.
(But those Indians came from the north. No one ever took the river route from the west and south.)
In stories like this, there is always - there is supposed to be - an old Indian who appears to the white men as they are planning to set out. He comes to warn them, because he is kind at heart and they are ignorant. "Do not go there," he says. "That is a place we never go." Indians in these tales have a formal manner of speaking.
"Why not?" the white men say.
"Bad spirits live there," says the old Indian. The white men smile and thank him, and disregard his advice. Native superstition, they think. So they go where they've been warned not to, and then, after many hardships, they die. The old Indian shakes his head when he hears of it. Foolish white men, but what can you tell them? They have no respect.
There's no old Indian in this book - he somehow got left out - so my father takes the part upon himself. "They shouldn't have gone there," he says. "The Indians never went that way." He doesn't say bad spirits, however. He says, "Nothing to eat." For the Indians it would have been the same thing, because where does food come from if not from the spirits? It isn't just there, it is given; or else withheld.
Hubbard and Wallace tried to hire several Indians, to come with them at least on the first stages of the journey, and to help with the packs. None would go; they said they were "too busy". Really they knew too much. What they knew was that you couldn't possibly carry with you, in there, everything you would need to eat. And if you couldn't carry it you would have to kill it. But most of the time there was nothing to kill. "Too busy" meant too busy to die. It also meant too polite to point out the obvious.
The two explorers did do one thing right. They hired a guide. His name was George, and he was a Cree Indian, or partly; what they called then a "breed". He was from James Bay, too far away from Labrador to know the full and evil truth about it. George travelled south to meet his employers, all the way to New York City, where he had never been before. He had never been to the United States before, or even to a city. He kept calm, he looked about him; he demonstrated his resourcefulness by figuring out what a taxi-cab was and how to hire one. His ability to reason things through was to come in very handy later on.
"That George was quite a boy," says my father. George is his favourite person in the whole story.
Somewhere around the house there's a picture of my father himself - at the back of a photo album, perhaps, with the snapshots that haven't yet been stuck in. It shows him thirty years younger, on some canoe trip or another - if you don't write these things down on the backs of the pictures, they get forgotten. He's evidently crossing a portage. He hasn't shaved, he's got a bandanna tied around his head because of the blackflies and mosquitoes, and he's carrying a heavy pack, with the broad tump-line across his forehead. His hair is dark, his glistening face is deeply tanned and not what you'd call clean. He looks slightly villainous; like a pirate, or indeed like a northwoods guide, the kind that might suddenly vanish in the middle of the night, along with your best rifle, just before the wolves arrive on the scene. But like someone who knows what he's doing.
"That George knew what he was doing," says my father now.
Once he got out of New York, that is; while there, George wasn't much help, because he didn't know where to shop. It was in New York that the two men bought all the necessary supplies, except a gill net, which they thought they could find up north. They also failed to purchase extra moccasins. This may have been their worst mistake.
Then they set out, by train and then by boat and then by smaller boat. The details are tedious. The weather was bad, the meals were foul, none of the transportation was ever on time. They spent a lot of hours and even days waiting around on docks and wondering when their luggage would turn up.
"That's enough for tonight," says my mother.
"I think he's asleep," I say.
"He never used to go to sleep," says my mother. "Not with this story. Usually he's busy making up his list."
"His list of what he would take."
While my father sleeps, I skip ahead in the story. The three men have finally made it inland from the bleak north-eastern shore of Labrador, and have left their last jumping-off place, and are voyaging in earnest. It's the middle of July, but the short summer will soon be over, and they have five hundred miles to go.
Their task is to navigate Grand Lake, which is long and thin; at its extreme end, or so they've been told, the Nascaupee flows into it. The only map they've seen, crudely drawn by an earlier white traveller some fifty years before, shows Grand Lake with only one river emptying into it. One is all the Indians have ever mentioned: the one that goes somewhere. Why talk about the others, because why would anyone want to know about them? There are many plants which have no names because they cannot be eaten or used.
But in fact there are four other rivers.
During this first morning they are exhilarated, or so Wallace records. Their hopes are high, adventure calls. The sky is deep blue, the air is crisp, the sun is bright, the treetops seem to beckon them on. They do not know enough to beware of beckoning treetops. For lunch they have flapjacks and syrup, and are filled with a sense of well-being. They know they're going into danger, but they also know that they are immortal. Such moods do occur, in the north. They take pictures with their camera: of their laden canoe, of one another: moustached, be-sweatered, with puttee-shaped wrappings on their legs and things on their heads that look like bowler hats, leaning blithely on their paddles. Heartbreaking, but only when you know the end. As it is they're having the time of their lives.
There's another photo of my father, perhaps from the same trip as the one with the portage; or he's wearing the same bandanna. This time he's grinning into the camera lens, pretending to shave himself with his axe. Two tall-tale points are being made: that his axe is as sharp as a razor, and that his bristles are so tough that only an axe could cut them. It's highjinks, a canoe-trip joke; although secretly of course he once believed both of these things.
On the second day the three men pass the mouth of the Nascaupee, which is hidden behind an island and looks like shoreline. They don't even suspect it is there. They continue on to the end of the lake, and enter the river they find there. They've taken the wrong turn.
I don't get back to Labrador for over a week. When I return, it's a Sunday night. The fire is blazing away and my father is sitting in front of it, waiting to see what will happen next. My mother is rustling up the baking-powder biscuits and the decaffeinated tea. I forage for cookies.
"How is everything?" I say.
"Fine," she says. "But he doesn't get enough exercise." Everything means my father, as far as she is concerned.
"You should make him go for a walk," I say.
"Make him," she says.
"He doesn't see the point of walking just to walk," she says. "If you're not going anywhere."
"You could send him on errands," I say. To this she does not bother even to reply.
"He says his feet hurt," she says. I think of the array of almost-new boots and shoes in the cupboard; boots and shoes that have proliferated lately. He keeps buying other ones. If only he can find the right pair, he must think, whatever it is that's causing his feet to hurt will go away.
I carry in the teacups, dole out the plates. "So, how are Hubbard and Wallace coming along?" I say. "Have you got to the place where they eat the owl?"
"Slim pickings," he says. "They took the wrong river. Even if they'd found the right one, it was too late to start."
Hubbard and Wallace and George toil upstream. The heat at midday is oppressive. Flies torment them, little flies like pinpricks, giant ones as big as your thumb. The river is barely navigable: they have to haul their laden canoe over gravel shallows, or portage around rapids, through forest that is harsh and unmarked and jumbled. In front of them the river unrolls; behind them it closes up like a maze. The banks of the river grow steeper; hill after hill, gentle in outline, hard at the core. It's a sparse landscape: ragged spruce, birch, aspen, all spindly; in some places burned over, the way forward blocked by charred and fallen tree- trunks.
How long is it before they realise they've gone up the wrong river? Far too long. They cache some of their food so they won't have to carry it; they throw some of it away. They manage to shoot a caribou, which they eat, leaving the hooves and head behind. Their feet hurt; their moccasins are wearing out.
At last Hubbard climbs a high hill, and from its top he sees Lake Michikamau; but the river they have been following does not go there. The lake is too far away: they can't possibly haul their canoe that far through the forest. They will have to turn back.
In the evenings their talk is no longer of discovery and exploration. Instead they talk about what they will eat. What they'll eat tomorrow, and what they'll eat when they get back. They compose bills of fare, feasts, grand blowouts. George is able to shoot or catch this and that. A duck here, a grouse there. A whiskeyjack. They catch sixty trout, painstakingly one by one, using a hook and line because they have no gill net. The trout are clear and fresh as icewater, but only six inches long. Nothing is nearly enough. The work of travelling uses up more energy than they can take in; they are slowly dissolving, wasting away.
Meanwhile the nights become longer and longer and darker and darker. Ice forms on the edges of the river. Hauling the canoe over the shallows, through the rushing stonecold water, leaves them shivering and gasping. The first snowflurries fall.
"It's rough country," says my father. "No moose; not even bears. That's always a bad sign, no bears." He's been there, or near it; same sort of terrain. He speaks of it with admiration and nostalgia, and a kind of ruefulness. "Now of course you can fly in. You can cover their whole route in a couple of hours." He waves his fingers dismissively: so much for planes.
"What about the owl?" I say.
"What owl?" says my father.
"The one they ate," I say. "I think it's where the canoe dumps, and they save their matches by sticking them in their ears."
"I think that was the others," says my father. "The ones who tried the same thing later. I don't think this bunch ate an owl."
"If they had eaten one what sort of owl would it have been?" I say.
"Great Horned or Boreal," he says, "if they were lucky. More meat on those. But it may have been something smaller." He gives a series of thin, eerie barks, like a dog at a distance, and then he grins. He knows every bird up there by its call; he still does.
"He's sleeping too much in the afternoons," says my mother.
"May be he's tired," I say.
"He shouldn't be that tired," she says. "Tired, and restless as well. He's losing his appetite."
"Maybe he needs a hobby," I say. "Something to occupy his mind."
"He used to have a lot of them," my mother says.
I wonder where they've all gone, those hobbies. Their tools and materials are still around; the plane and the spirit level, the feathers for tying dry flies, the machine for enlarging prints, the points for making arrows. These bits and pieces seem to me like artefacts, the kind that are dug up at archaeological sites, and then pondered over and classified, and used for deducing the kind of life once lived.
"He used to say he wanted to write his memoirs," says my mother. "A sort of account; all the places he's been. He did begin it several times, but now he's lost interest. He can't see too well."
"He could use a tape recorder," I say.
"Oh help," says my mother. "More gadgets!"
The winds howl and cease, the snow falls and stops falling. The three men have traversed across to a different river, hoping it will be better, but it isn't. One night George has a dream: God appears to him, shining and bright and affable, and speaks in a manner which is friendly but firm. "I can't spare any more of these trout," he says, "but if you stick to this river you'll get down to Grand Lake all right. Just you don't leave the river, and I'll get you out safe."
George tells the others of his dream. It is discounted. The men abandon their canoe and strike out overland, hoping to reach their old trail. After far too long they do reach it, and stumble along it down the valley of the river they first ascended, rummaging through their former campsites for any food they might have thrown away. They aren't counting in miles, but in days; how many days they have left, and how many it will take. But that will depend on the weather, and on their own strength: how fast they can go. They find a lump of mouldering flour, a bit of lard, a few bones, some caribou hooves, which they boil. A little tin of dry mustard; they mix it into the soup, and find it encouraging.
In The third week of October, this is how things stand:
Hubbard has become too weak to go any further. He's been left behind, wrapped in his blankets, in the tent, with a fire going. The other two have gone on; they hope to walk out, then send help back for him. He's given them the last of the peameal.
The snow is falling. For dinner he has some strong tea and bone broth, and some boiled rawhide, made from the last of his moccasins; he writes in his journal that it is truly delicious. Now he is without footgear. He has every hope that the others will succeed, and will return and save him; or so he records. Nevertheless he begins a farewell message for his wife. He writes that he has a pair of cowhide mittens which he is looking forward to cooking and eating the next day.
After that he goes to sleep, and after that he dies.
Some days further down the trail, Wallace too has to give up. He and George part company: Wallace intends to go back with the latest leavings they've managed to locate - a few handfuls of mouldy flour. He will find Hubbard, and together they will await rescue. But he's been caught in a blizzard, and has lost his bearings; at the moment he's in a shelter made of branches, waiting for the snow to let up. He is amazingly weak, and no longer hungry, which he knows is a bad sign. Every movement he makes is slow and deliberate, and at the same time unreal, as if his body is apart from him and he is only watching it. In the white light of day or the red flicker of the fire - for he still has fire - the patterns on the ends of his own fingers appear miraculous to him. Such clarity and detail; he follows the pattern of the woven blanket as if tracing a map.
His dead wife has appeared to him, and has given him several pieces of practical advice concerning his sleeping arrangements: a thicker layer of spruce boughs underneath, she's said, would be more comfortable. Sometimes he only hears her, sometimes he sees her as well; she's wearing a blue summer dress, her long hair pinned up in a shining coil. She appears perfectly at home; the poles of the shelter are visible through her back. Wallace has ceased to be surprised by this.
Even further along, George continues to walk; to walk out. He knows more or less where he's going; he will find help and return with it. But he isn't out yet, he's still in. Snow surrounds him, the blank grey sky enfolds him; at one point he comes across his own tracks and realises he's been walking in a circle. He too is thin and weak, but he's managed to shoot a porcupine. He pauses to think it through: he could turn around, retrace his steps, take the porcupine back to share with the others; or he could eat all of it himself, and go forward. He knows that if he goes back it's likely that none of them will get out alive; but if he goes on, there's at least a possibility, at least for him. He goes on, hoarding the bones.
"That George did the right thing," says my father.
While sitting at the dinner table my father has another stroke. This time it knocks out half the vision in each eye, and his short-term memory, and his sense of where he is. From one minute to the next he has become lost; he gropes through the living room as if he's never been in such a place before. The doctors say this time it's unlikely he'll recover.
Time passes. Now the lilacs are in bloom outside the window, and he can see them, or parts of them. Despite this he thinks it's October. Still, the core of him is still there. He sits in his armchair, trying to figure things out. One sofa cushion looks much like another unless you have something to go by. He watches the sunlight gleaming on the hardwood floor; his best guess is it's a stream. In extreme situations you have to use your wits.
"I'm here," I say, kissing his dry cheek. He hasn't gone bald, not in the least. He has silvery-white hair, like an egret frozen.
He peers at me, out of the left sides of his eyes, which are the ones that work. "You seem to have become very old all of a sudden," he says.
As far as we can tell he's missing the last four or five years, and several blocks of time before that as well. He's disappointed in me: not because of anything I've done, but because of what I've failed to do. I've failed to remain young. If I could have managed that I could have saved him; then he too could have remained as he was.
I wish I could think of something to amuse him. I've tried recordings of bird songs, but he doesn't like them: they remind him that there's something he once knew, but can't remember. Stories are no good, not even short ones, because by the time you get to the second page he's forgotten the beginning. Where are we without our plots?
Music is better; it takes place drop by drop.
My mother doesn't know what to do, and so she rearranges: cups and plates, documents, bureau drawers. Right now she's outside, yanking weeds out of the garden in a bewildered frenzy. Dirt and couch grass fly through the air: that at least will get done! There's a wind; her hair is wild, blown up around her head like feathers.
I've told her I can't stay long. "You can't?" she said. "But we could have tea, I could light a fire..."
"Not today," I said firmly.
He can see her out there, more or less, and he wants her to come back in. He doesn't like it that she's on the other side of the glass. If he lets her slip away, out of his sight, who knows where she might go? She might vanish for ever.
I hold his good hand. "She'll come in soon," I say; but soon could be a year.
"I want to go home," he says. I know there's no point telling him that home is where he now is, because he means something else. He means the way he was before.
"Where are we now?" I say.
He gives me a crafty look: am I trying to trip him up? "In a forest," he says. "We need to get back."
"We're all right here," I say.
He considers. "Not much to eat."
"We brought the right supplies," I say.
He is reassured. "But there's not enough wood." He's anxious about this; he says it every day. His feet are cold, he says.
"We can get more wood," I say."We can cut it."
He's not so sure. "I never thought this would happen," he says. He doesn't mean the stroke, because he doesn't know he's had one. He means getting lost.
"We know what to do," I say. "Anyway, we'll be fine."
"We'll be fine," he says, but he sounds dubious. He doesn't trust me, and he is right.
2 'The Labrador Fiasco' by Margaret Atwood is published by Bloomsbury, together with nine other Birthday Quids, on 19 September at pounds 1. 'Alias Grace', Margaret Atwood's new novel, will be published on the same day at pounds 16.99Reuse content