THE WIND DIED AND THE COVE blackened in deep shadow. The gentle motion from the tide lapped against the sloping shingle. From where the two men lay sprawled on the beach, only the tips of the schooner’s masts were visible against the night sky. Worcester pulled on his pipe and found only the foul, burnt taste of ash remaining. He tapped the bowl of the briar against one of the rocks that lined their fireplace and watched the dottle fall among the glowing driftwood’s ashes.
Mattie watched the preacher man pull a small, round, brass land compass out of his pocket and look into the north sky.
“You told me your people always use the North Star for guidance, Mattie. I know where north is, but I always have trouble finding the North Star itself. It isn’t very bright, is it?”
“No, Nort’ Star ver’ faint. You know where Big Dipper is?” asked Mattie, and when Worcester assured him that he did indeed, Mattie, looking up into the firmament, spoke again. “Find Nort’ Star easy with two fingers dis way.”
There are seven stars in the Big Dipper and also seven stars in the little one, Mattie told him. Worcester had to admit he had never counted them before. The fire crackled and the small waves brushed against the beach. A snipe hunted somewhere high above them. The warbling sound escaped from its folded wings and echoed around the cove as it dived for moths. Pointing skyward, the easy-talking woodsman explained to the educated American how simple it was to get direction from the night heavens. Fascinated, Worcester watched and listened and saw right away what all of his book knowledge had never taught him.
With his long, brown fingers Mattie demonstrated to Worcester the age-old method of finding the Dog Star. Like an eager student, Worcester followed his every move. With the thumb of his right hand on the lower star and with his forefinger extended to reach the star above—Mattie called it the pointing star—which formed the outer edge of the Big Dipper opposite its handle, Mattie moved both fingers straight up five times, always keeping the fingers the same distance apart.
“Now pointing finger on firs’ star in Little Dipper ’andle. Dis is Nort’ Star. Never fail. My people use on land an’ water. When one dipper empty, udder one always full.” Mattie dropped his hand and watched as Worcester raised his own hand above his head to study this method of navigation. When he thanked Mattie for showing him the stars, adding that many of the old ways were still good ones, the Indian simply replied in his matter-of-fact way.
“If old way not good way, ’ow dey get old?” Worcester, who had no answer for such wisdom, said nothing.
They left the Danny Boy in the grey dawn of the following day. The schooner swung on her hook, with lots of scoop given. With two heavy lines running from the shore to each of her two sides, she looked secure in the narrow cove. Seated in Mattie’s canoe, they made their way along the coast. In the stern of the craft and paddling on the left side sat the lean Indian. Seated in the bow and paddling on the right was the broad American preacher.
Between the two men sat their stored accoutrements and enough basic provisions to provide for days. A tan-coloured tent sat atop the pile, and two fly fishing rods stretched across the tent. Among their supplies were a double-barrelled shotgun in a waterproof case and Mattie’s long bow. Next to the latter was a leather quiver filled with long arrows. Worcester had seen him put the weapon aboard but had not said anything about it. He was excited about seeing it put to use.
With each stroke and dip of the paddles, the canoe slid quickly along the coast. They rounded a point and left the Danny Boy in its sheltered cove behind. When the sun finally broached the mountains, grey clouds moved in to cover it.
“Clouds low. Rain dis day, maybe,” Mattie said softly from the stern of the canoe.
Worcester agreed with his guide and shifted his paddle to the left side of the canoe. Behind him, Mattie changed to the right side. It is the way of paddlers, who know that a change is as good as a rest. Even without the sun the day was warm. The wind here was light, but a brisk wind threatened from the gulf. Before they had gone far, the wind had reached them, and waves came as if from nowhere and slapped against the side of the little craft, causing it to roll dangerously.
They were no more than a few feet from the formidable limestone coastline. Worcester was worried. He could see nowhere to go for shelter. He was about to voice his concern when the bow of the canoe suddenly turned in to the face of the cliffs. For a moment he thought they would capsize and grabbed both gunnels of the canoe.
“Keep paddlin’, ” came a low growl from the stern.
Worcester dipped his paddle into a surge of water that was rolling level with the gunnels. He held his breath in fear but kept paddling as instructed. Just when he was sure they would be thrown against the looming cliff face, the canoe gently lifted from behind and shot through a narrow passage with amazing speed.
And then they sped away from the scud of wind as they entered a long, pleasant arm where the big waves of the gulf could not reach. Worcester felt ashamed of himself for letting go of the paddle. It was a very dangerous thing to do. He said so to Mattie, who replied simply, “You do better nex’ time.” Worcester, hoping there would never be a next time, dug his paddle in deep as the canoe glided down a calm, pristine water valley. There would be many more narrow escapes for Worcester and his fearless guide, but the American would never again let go of his paddle.
They heard the brook running into the sea long before they saw it. It made its way into the sea through a flat, rocky, and very shallow delta. They hauled the canoe along the foundered banks, and at the first turn in the river the sea was gone from their view. They paddled across deep steadies, and up rattles they pulled their craft.
They fished and caught high-jumping Atlantic salmon in the intertidal pools. They caught flashing steelheads, which were in the same river and which Worcester had not fished before. As the two men had enjoyed the bounties of the rolling ocean before, now they relished the days and the taste of the wilderness.
Worcester had always figured himself to be a good fly fisherman. He was good at catching trout, but he was embarrassed with the pitiful results of his salmon catch in comparison to Mattie’s. The man not only knew where the salmon were lying, he was always able not only to “rise” one of the fish, but promptly hook one. He pointed out to Worcester where to find the fish, but try as he might, the American could not get the hang of Atlantic salmon fly fishing.
They were at the end of a long, deep pool one late evening casting for salmon. A salmon would jump out of the water at regular intervals and glisten as it turned to re-enter the water with a noisy splash.
Worcester tried his best to ward off the hordes of blackflies. They always seemed to hunt him more than they did his companion. He was having no success with his fishing and it put him in a foul mood. He called out to Mattie, who was just now removing the hook from his second salmon.
“Mattie, are you sure there are salmon behind these rocks? I have seen no sign of them there and I have changed flies several times without any luck whatsoever.”
Mattie laid his own rod down, walked over to Worcester, and asked him for his rod. After studying the water for a minute or so, he made a long, slow cast. The line swung high and curved in a graceful arc that seemed to defy the wind, then gently landed the hook behind the same rock with which the American was trying his luck. A dark swirl of water appeared behind the hook. Mattie pulled quickly, but it came back empty.
“Dat one smart salmon,” he said. “I try nex’ one, maybe.”
He cast his line toward another rock behind which he had told Worcester several salmon were waiting. The line presented the hook as before, and on the very next cast the same dark swirl of water appeared behind the moving fly. This time Mattie’s pole snapped back with a rapid motion of his wrist, there was a sudden buzzing sound from the reel, a salmon jumped for freedom, the tiny reel gears clicked, the rod bent from tip to middle, and the play began. Mattie landed his fish, cast a few more times behind each of the two rocks, and raised two more salmon. He handed the rod back to Worcester.
“I catch one salmon fer you, show you t’ree more. Now your turn again.”
With that he started to walk back to his own fishing spot. Worcester couldn’t understand what he was doing wrong. He pleaded with Mattie.
Mattie turned and said, “You cast ver’ good line. You don’t watch hook. Your eye mus’ never leave hook. Watch fer willum. Den pull quick.”
Worcester didn’t have any idea what a “willum” was and didn’t know why he had to keep his eye on the hook. In his usual patient way, Mattie Mitchell explained to the preacher the secret of fly fishing for the wily Atlantic salmon. The salmon came in out of the ocean to these swift rivers to spawn, he said, not to feed. He had gutted many of them late in the season. Their bellies were always empty, even though the water surface was alive with many kinds of insects. Why they didn’t feed, he wasn’t sure, nor did he care. He just knew what he saw.
When the fish rose for the hook, it wasn’t for food. He told Worcester that when he saw the “willum,” or swirl, directly behind his trailing hook, the salmon already had the hook in its mouth. That was the instant to set the hook. The fish would spit the metal out of its mouth quicker than it had taken it. Worcester admitted to Mattie that he had always waited for a bite as if he were fishing for trout. Mattie told him again, “No willum, no salmon. Feel him take, too late.”
Worcester never took his eye from the hook again. His salmon fishing improved, but he could never match the skill of Mattie Mitchell. Worcester always believed that Mattie had another secret to fishing, and, like all fishermen, kept it to himself.
FOR THIS EXPEDITION THEY HAD TAKEN one black cooking pot, a much smaller pot for tea, and an iron frying pan. Worcester cooked the red salmon over an open fire near the water where it had been caught. Mattie cut the steelhead down the back, opened up its thick sides with several lateral cuts, and placed the fillets flesh down on flat rocks close to the fire. When the salmon had sizzled to a golden brown and the trout started to emit sweet-smelling steam out of every cut, both men began eating. They exchanged pieces of fish. Worcester loved the naturally cooked trout best. But Mattie Mitchell wanted something more. He wanted meat.
On they moved up the river, which narrowed, widened, and ran deep and shallow, until they came to a place where the river was almost lost in low boglands. They quietly paddled through a place with tall green grasses. Two or more small streams meandered out of the grasses and joined the bigger river. Mattie guided the canoe into one of the narrowest of these leads. A bend appeared, and beyond it the tributary seemed to widen into a circular pond. The long-stemmed grasses grew everywhere here.
Worcester felt Mattie shift his paddle, and in the next instant the boat turned and slid in among the tall goose grass. They were now parallel to the slow stream. Worcester was surprised to feel a firm, gravelly bottom at the end of his paddle. He turned to ask a question but heard “No turn, no talk.”
For a long time they waited, for what Worcester had no idea. Once, he felt a slight movement and heard a faint rustle from the back of the canoe. He did not turn around. Their heads barely topped the grass. Worcester thought the blossoming grass ends would grow into wild rice, but he wasn’t sure and dared not ask.
The stream beside them appeared still and black like a mirror. There was nothing to see of the water save for the slight bend just ahead of them. Presently, two small objects at the bend in the water came into the American’s view. At first he thought it was something that had been floating there before and he hadn’t noticed. But then another object appeared from below the water. As he watched, three more heads broke the surface, and then all five muskrat swam toward them, with a tiny, V-shaped wake following them.
All five of the rodents stopped less than fifteen yards from the hidden canoe, and two of them started swimming in wide, slow circles. The wobbling sound of air escaping the wings of an airborne snipe hunting for summer moths came to them from high above. Worcester looked skyward, hoping to see it. He had always loved the sound. He spotted the snipe hundreds of feet in the air. Suddenly it dived earthward for something Worcester couldn’t see, and the same high-pitched wilderness sound burst forth.
Worcester turned back to the muskrats. There were only two to be seen. He looked all around but could not see the others. A few minutes passed and they appeared again, bobbing up from the water like black corks. They swam toward the opposite shore, hauled themselves onto a low, sloped rock, and began eating. They were eating clams.
Still no sound or movement came from Mattie. The muskrats on the rock finished the clams and, slid into the water one by one. They swam out into the stream and dived below the surface again. The two larger muskrats, which had kept swimming around during this activity, suddenly dived in unison. One of the other heads appeared. There came at the same instant a sound like a suddenly released branch on a quiet trail. Worcester saw a long, slim arrow pass through the muskrat’s throat where its soaked fur met the waterline.
The startled animal tried to dive, but it only managed to get half of its body below the water. Then, with the arrow sticking straight up out of its neck, it swam in slow circles until it slowed and finally stopped. Another head appeared and for a moment faced the canoe. Worcester heard the same gentle rush of air behind him, this time accompanied by the twang of Mattie’s bow. Fascinated, he saw the arrow enter the muskrat’s throat, heard a sudden squeal of pain from the creature’s open mouth, then watched as its head fell forward in a frothy bubble of blood and water.
The other rodents surfaced and appeared to be alarmed. Worcester was waiting for at least the closest one to receive the same fate as the other two, when the Indian spoke loud and clear.
“We ’ave plen’y. We eat good dis night. Young muskrat taste ver’ good. Tomorrow we find much clams. Maybe much pearls, too.”
And then, just as Mattie had predicted, the rain began.
FOR AS LONG AS HE LIVED, ELWOOD WORCESTER would never forget that first night he spent with Mattie Mitchell in the true wilderness. Both of them were soaked by the time they had set up the tent and stowed their gear inside. Just around the bend from where Mattie had killed the two muskrats, a droke of fir, some spruce, and white birch jutting out from the wetlands provided a suitable campsite. Around the trees the ground was firm and level. The falling rain made the fir trees come alive with a sweet scent that hung in the air. Their fire, once Mattie got it really going just outside the tent’s triangular door, gave off wisps of grey smoke that rose with the sparkling yellow flankers.
Worcester was no stranger to the ways of the wild, but this day and night would forever stand out as the time when he had really lived with nature. He had fished the salt sea and jigged codfish. He had taken salmon from the clear river waters. He had seen a man kill for food in the most primitive of ways. He was also pretty sure he was about to eat the flesh of muskrat. Above them, the ageless, dark mountains with all of their splendours kept a silent watch.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The air warmed in the windless night. The trees all around them divested themselves of the fallen water, dripping and plunking and plinking into the stream from overhanging branches, tapping on leaves and drumming on the ground. Away from the rim of firelight, the night was as black as pitch. Snipes hunted and cried above the two men. Somewhere a loon voiced its need, and from farther away its haunting cry was answered.
Mattie carefully skinned the two muskrats by the fire. He saved both of the dark brown pelts, though he told Worcester the hides were not at their best this time of year.
“Dis one yours,” he told Worcester, indicating one of the naked pink carcasses. “You cook on stick or in iron pan?”
Worcester had some qualms about eating the scrawny meat cooked in any fashion and told Mattie so.
“Caribou meat. Bear meat. Water rat meat. All meat. Only taste is differen’,” Mattie said quietly.
Worcester couldn’t argue with that logic. Given the choice of frying his “rat” or roasting it over the campfire, and seeing Mattie’s supper skewered and dangling over the fire, he suddenly realized he was famished. He picked up the meat and, as if having read his mind, Mattie handed him a stick for roasting.
“Good. We use fry pan fer bannock,” Mattie said.
From his pack, which mysteriously seemed to contain many small and useful items, Mattie pulled a tin of bear fat. Worcester handed him the flour bag and Mattie stirred a measure of flour and brook water together. Greasing the pan with the heavy bear fat, he poured the pan more than half full with the moist dough.
While their evening meal cooked, both men prepared a drying rack near the fire. Worcester helped cut young saplings for their purpose. Mattie was impressed with the American, who always helped with every chore—except with the skinning. Over the years he had taken many sportsmen into the wilds of Newfoundland. Many of them would not carry their own guns or their fancy fishing rods, but expected their guide to “do what he was paid to do.”
One of them had taken Mattie’s uncomplaining manner too far. The short, skinny man, who was always out of breath and who complained and whined at just about everything, had demanded Mattie carry him on his back across a knee-high brook. Without hesitating, Mattie sat on a low rock near the swift brook, the grumpy man climbed on his bent back, and off they went. Approaching midstream, where the brook was deepest, and without uttering a sound of warning, Mattie tripped and fell into the cold water, unceremoniously depositing his screaming passenger as he did so. The cries and terrible curse words from the sputtering man only increased as he waded and stumbled ashore—on the wrong side—and did not see the grin on the face of his proud guide.
The blue smoke rose from the campfire. Steam drifted upward from the drying clothing. The fat from the roasting meat dripped and sputtered down upon the glowing coals. The browning bannock bread smelled almost as good as Millie’s loaves. The two loons called again to announce they had found each other. The high, rolling laughter of the triumphant male resounded through the hills. And then, as if on cue, a new sickle moon appeared above the southern hills. On its silvery back it carried the faint outline of the old one.
When the muskrats were cooked and just before the bannock started to burn, both men sat back and ate. When Worcester finished the last bite of his meat, he wiped the last of the bear fat drippings from the pan with a piece of bread. He sighed with pleasure and told Mattie the meat had a taste similar to chicken— only better. He even copied Mattie, who, after roasting the small leg bones on the hot coals, had cracked them open and ate the thin, yellow marrow inside. Walking to the brook, Worcester washed his hands and face, looked thoughtfully at the opening skies for a while, and stepped inside the tent to join his guide for a well-deserved rest.
“DIS DAY UQANTIE’UMG—SUNDAY, PREACHER,” Mattie said after they had breakfasted the next morning. He looked at Worcester expectantly. Worcester saw in Mattie’s hand a well-used prayer book that he had removed from a tooled leather bag. Mattie made the sign of the Cross over the book.
“And so it is, Mattie. I must apologize, for I had completely forgotten the day.”
Seeing in Mattie’s small, dark eyes the need for something more from him on this day, Worcester stood, bowed his head, and voiced aloud a prayer. He suddenly felt as though he were standing in the grandest of churches, with an audience of one giving him his rapt attention. When Worcester asked to see the Catholic prayer book, Mattie passed it to him. He admired the leather bag made to fit over it. Mattie explained to him the case was made from babiche, rawhide made from the well-tanned hide of a caribou.
The book had a red ochre colour and fit easily into the palm of Worcester’s hand. He opened the book and was astonished to learn he could not read one word inside. The book was written in Mattie’s own Mi’kmaq language! He asked Mattie if he could read and was totally surprised at the answer.
“Some. Not much. Ver’ few words. No one show me my own tongue. No paper. Not even ’lowed to speak my own tongue. Dey call it savage talk. Dey laugh when I speak my talk. Dey laugh when I speak English talk.”
Mattie told Worcester one white man had showed an interest in his language one time, but he only wanted him to say a few Mi’kmaq swear words. The man had waited with great expectation, a smirk on his bearded face. He couldn’t wait to hear Mattie reveal the curse words so he could share them with his friends. But Mattie said, “My language ’ave no swear words. Only white man curse great spirit wit’ swear words.” The man had walked away, cursing angrily.
With his usual matter-of-fact attitude, Mattie explained to Worcester that he had attended school only briefly, where he was forbidden to speak the language of his people, where he was looked down upon and treated little better than a dog, and from which he left at a very early age and never returned. Worcester, ever the humanitarian, secretly equated Mattie’s plight to that of the black people of his own country and felt ashamed.
Mattie shrugged off the things that had been, as was his way, and told Worcester how he came to read. He had guided two geologists, Alexander Murray and James Howley, for years. They were good men. Around dozens of campfires, especially in autumn when the nights were long, they had shown Mattie the basics of reading. Howley, especially, showed an interest in this endeavour and was very pleased to see Mattie read a few words. They had been friends for years. Mattie told Worcester that he had called Howley “Sage,” his Mi’kmaq word for James, and Howley would call Mattie nothing else but Matthieu.
Still handling the well-worn prayer book, Worcester asked Mattie if he was a churchgoer and if he had ever been baptized. Mattie replied that he went to Mass sometimes, where he always sat in the back of the church. He only went when he felt like it, understood some of it, loved the mystery of it, and that he knew nothing about baptism. However, like all of his people, he had always been spiritual.
“My people have big M’n’t’u spirit all ’round.” Here Mattie spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. “Ver’ many people not find M’n’t’u outside church.”
Worcester, who had been trained in a sectarian world and knew that Manitou was considered a Supreme Being with all of the native peoples, said nothing. Mattie put the book—which he would open every Sunday morning for as long as Worcester knew him—back inside its rawhide covering and got to his feet.
“Mass time over. We fin’ pearls now, maybe.”
Worcester, rising to his feet, said, “Amen.”
HE ENTERED THE COLD WATER OF THE slow-moving stream to his knees. When Worcester offered to help, Mattie told him, “I fin’ clams. You shuck ’em.” Worcester agreed. He did not relish wading in cold water.
Twice Mattie brought his big hands above the water, filled with what he called freshwater mussels. He inspected them carefully and threw them back. The next time he brought only two, which were bigger than the others, their shells stained brown. They looked very old. These he tossed ashore to an excited Worcester, who broke them open. Inside one he found nothing, but deep inside the mucous body of the second one he found a white pearl as big around as the top of his finger. Mattie had found the clam bed and the pearls, as promised.
They stayed on that river for more than a week. Mattie retrieved clams from the cold water and never once complained. Nor did he appear to suffer from the frigid task. Every day, they spotted muskrat swimming toward them. Upon seeing the tall man throwing handfuls of clams upon the grassy bank, the animals turned back, disappointed, and quickly dived again, not breaking the surface again until they were much farther away.
They collected no less than 490 pearls of varying sizes and colours, only a few of which could compare with the first one they had found. Worcester deemed all of the dull-coloured, non-circular ones useless and threw them away. It was a big mistake. Months later, while meeting with a pearl merchant in New York City, Worcester learned much more about pearls.
The jeweller told him that the pearls sometimes kept growing in the clam long after it had become a threat to its body. The mollusk kept layering the pearl like an onion. Often inside the seemingly useless covering is the finest pearl of all. Further to this, during a trip to the Smithsonian Institute in Washington D. C., he learned that Mattie Mitchell had indeed been right about the relationship between muskrat and pearls. The muskrat, he was told by a knowledgeable curator, considers the clam a delicacy.
The muskrat is also the carrier of a water-borne parasite that is deadly to the freshwater mollusk. Diving among the sharp-edged open clams, there are times when the parasite is torn from the muskrat’s sodden fur as it rips and tears the clams from their riverbeds. The rodent’s parasite then sometimes becomes embedded inside the body of the clam. Unable to dislodge the invasion, the animal entombs and isolates the virus with its natural secretions, thus suffocating it. The resulting build-up of nacreous fluids hardens and holds the louse a prisoner forever. Without ever knowing the scientific reason why, Mattie Mitchell was intelligent enough to make the correlation.
The two men made their way down the river and out of the wilderness on a warm summer evening. They paddled in the gloaming to where the Danny Boy still waited. No one had been aboard during their absence. The day was just about spent, so, rather than sail out the bay in the dark, they spent the night aboard the schooner.
After sailing back to Bay of Islands and paying Mattie for his admirable services, Worcester set a date for an extended caribou hunt early in the autumn, hired two crewmen, and set sail for Labrador.