Soapstone Signs and Whispers:
A Spring Arrival

Lindy travels opposite to the geese. Every spring after the ice breaks up on the river, he walks in from the north along the tracks. Even though his name is Lindbergh, everyone calls him Lindy. Even me. He has a way of being polite without saying anything. He smells like campfires and the outdoors.

Lindy carries a big burlap sack of soapstone pieces. Folks ask where he’s found all that soapstone. He just laughs and tells them, “Somewhere between here and there.”

Our place is one of the stops on his yearly journey to the south. We operate the lodge between the river and the train tracks. Lindy trades his carving in return for a place to sleep and food to eat. Each year, Mom puts the one he carves for us in the glass display case. Our guests sometimes ask to buy them, but Mom always says, “Not these ones—they are special to us.”

When someone asks, “Whatcha working on?” Lindy smiles and says, “Work in progress.” He leaves his finished carvings on the ground beside him, and the tourists can look and touch and buy those ones if they want. He carves bears, loons, owls, ospreys, beavers, walrus, seals and even fish.

Lindy has a place he likes to sit by the riverbank. I like to sit with him and watch him carve. Sometimes he hands me what he is working on. I look and then hand it back without saying a word. Really, that is saying a lot.

Today, when Lindy finishes a carving, I become curious. “How do you know what you will carve next?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “You ask the stone,” he says. “Whatever it is going to be, it is already there.”

“How does the stone answer you?”

“Sometimes, you might be given a sign, and then you will know what to carve.”

“Do you mean signs like the ones where the train stops?”

“Those are important signs too, but a sign can be any way that the world gives you a message. Signs come to you when your thoughts mix with your senses.”

I know what all the senses are. I ask Lindy, “If you mix your thoughts with your sight, can you see what is inside the stone?”

He lifts the piece he is working on, turns his hand and studies it against the clouds. “Sometimes it feels like I can see into the stone.”

“Does the stone talk to you?”

“Sometimes I feel like the stone is whispering to me.”

“Can you ever tell by the smell and the taste?”

Lindy laughs. “Sometimes the smells and tastes of the world around me give me signs about what is inside the stone.”

“Can you tell what is waiting inside by touching the stone?”

“Sometimes if I hold it just so, it’s like I can feel what is inside.”

“What if the stone won’t tell you?”

Lindy reaches into his burlap sack and holds a small piece out to me. “This is for you—ask for yourself.”

My very first piece of soapstone. It is dull gray and feels powdery before it is carved. I know from watching Lindy that the soapstone will look different after it is made into a carving. It will polish to a beautiful dark green with black swirls and white shimmers like the northern lights.

I am not sure my ears are sharp enough to hear the soapstone whisper. “Will you tell me what is inside, so I can try to carve it out?”

“That piece of stone has chosen you. Only the one who is to be the carver will know.”

“What if it never tells me?”

He laughs again. “Take it with you and be ready for a sign.”

I hold the soapstone to my ear all the way home, but it does not speak to me. I ask it lots of questions, but it doesn’t reply. I hold it up to a lamp, but I still can’t see into it. I cradle the stone until it is as warm as I am, but I still don’t know what it’s meant to be.

At suppertime, I show off my soapstone and tell everyone about how the carving is already inside it.

“Give it here,” my big brother says. “I’ll smash it open, and then we’ll see what’s inside it.”

I hold it tightly. After all, it chose me, not him.

I put it under my pillow. I wonder if it will ever speak to me or give me a sign.

That night I dream of the bear cub that comes to the garbage pails out back, and I wake up very excited. I wonder if that counts as a sign.

When I join Lindy on the riverbank, I tell him about my dream. He nods, then hands me a rasp file. “You’d better carve that bear cub out of there.”

“Will my signs always come in dreams?” I say.

“Not always, but sometimes.”

“Where else will I get my signs?”

“Everywhere, from everything. Stay open to the world around you. You will learn to understand your signs.”

I work with Lindy all day. Mom brings us lunch by the riverbank. Tourists come to watch us. Some of them want to know what I am carving, but I just smile and say, “Work in progress.”

By suppertime, Lindy has made an owl and a walrus. He has already sold them, plus all the other ones he’s made since he arrived at our lodge.

I finally finish my carving. The bear’s head is crooked, and its neck too short. I have not left enough stone for one of the ears, and I’ve forgotten that bear cubs have small tails. I am feeling a bit ashamed of it. Then Lindy takes my stone carving in his hands. “That is a very good bear cub,” he says. I start to feel better.

My brother says it looks like roadkill. Dad looks it over carefully, then digs through his toolbox and gives me a rasp file for keeps. Mom asks my permission to put the bear cub in the display case, and I feel very proud.

Lindy stays for as many days as it takes to carve the soapstone pieces in his sack. Mom and Dad always invite him to stay longer, but he never does. Mom packs him some sandwiches. Dad lets me walk him down the tracks to the marker line that tells the train our stop is coming.

At the marker, Lindy stops and shakes my hand like I am a grown-up. He hands me his burlap sack. There are still three nice pieces of soapstone in it.

“I think you are going to be a very good carver,” he tells me.

“Meegwetch,” I say.

“Thank you also,” he says.

I watch him disappear to the south. I will practice listening to the stone. I will be ready for the signs. I will wait for the ice to break up on the river and for the geese to fly back home. Most of all, I will watch for Lindy to arrive again. When he does, I will show him my carvings.