For Declan the days were dissolving into one another, one following another, it seemed to him, seamlessly. Otter Harbour was a quiet, unhurried place, so to Declan the days seemed all the same.
Early on Sunday morning, before anyone else was up, he decided to take a look in Matthew’s workshop to check on the seal pup which had now been there two days. The seal, motionless on a bed of straw in a big cardboard box near the heater, regarded him with a milky eye. Matthew should have let it die on the beach. The seal was too far gone: it was beyond Matthew’s ability to fix it. Declan couldn’t help a brief feeling of satisfaction. The Fixer would fail. The seal would die.
He wandered down to the shore to sit and watch the ocean and the gulls from a high rocky promontory, a short distance from the house. He came to this wild place often when he sought isolation. Somehow, the sight of the sea beating and frothing against the rocks made him feel at home, at the center of things, even though his home was far away; the wild hiss and draw of the surf somehow calmed him.
Today, however, there was another figure on the beach near to the rocks. When he got closer he could see it was his Aunt Kate. She was sketching with pastel crayons. A large pad of sketch paper rested on her knees.
“I didn’t know you were an artist,” said Declan.
She smiled up at him. Again, he was reminded of his ma: they had the same eyes, the same easy, fond way of smiling. “I’ve always painted,” she said. “Ever since I was a child.” She tilted the seascape sketch so he could see.
Declan studied the dark sweeping colors on the page. Then he looked at the scene before them. “Is that what you see?”
“Today, it’s what I see.”
“You did the paintings in the house,” said Declan, “I can see that now.”
“I paint from some of the pastel sketches, yes. There’s a small gallery in Sechelt owned by a woman from Dublin, Moira Donaghue, who came out here about the same time we did. Moira started taking some of my stuff a few years ago. Then a gallery in Vancouver wanted some. So they keep me busy.” She sighed happily. “Ah! Every day is different here. It’s the grand country. I try to catch the different moods of the sea and the sky.”
Declan laughed. “I was only just thinking how every day is the same, one day after another with nothing to tell them apart.”
Kate said, “You’re dead wrong, Declan, so you are. Each day is unique—one of a kind.” She pointed. “The clouds are never the same; they move constantly, changing their shapes. The light is always different at different times of the day and the year. I like the early morning light best; it’s purer somehow, have you noticed?”
Kate said, “Life is change. Clouds, light.” She looked at him slyly. “People too; they grow and change.”
Declan said nothing to that. He remembered: Kate was a Fixer too, just like Matthew.
“What kind of a name is Iron Eagle, anyway?”
“A First Nation name.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am a Native Indian. When I was baptized I was given a Christian name—Joe Summers. But many First Nation people take the old names now.”
They were eating their lunches on the outdoor steps. The playing field was empty, but several runners were circling the track in the afternoon sunshine.
“I don’t see many of your people at school,” said Declan.
Joe shrugged. “They leave to hunt or fish. Some go logging.”
“Why not you?”
“I stay.”
“Yes, but why?”
Joe often frowned over a question, and took his time answering. He did so now. Declan waited.
“I stay because I want an education,” he said at last. “I plan to study law.”
“A lawyer.” The tone of Declan’s voice conveyed his low opinion of law and lawyers. “I thought you wanted to be a scientist.”
Joe shook his head. “I want to help my people.” He saw the puzzlement on Declan’s face and laughed. Then he became serious again. “Like many of my people, I live on a Reservation.” He waved his arm in a wide sweep over the distant forest. “Once, all this land, as far as an eagle can see, belonged to us. It was ours to hunt and fish. But it was taken away from us. We have been fighting for many years to get it back.”
Declan’s eyes shone with interest. “Fighting?”
Joe nodded. “The government men listen to us, and say they will do something. But they never do.”
“What kind of fighting?” said Declan, remembering the Indian pictures of his childhood, feathered headdresses, bows and arrows.
“We demonstrate. We close the roads through our land. We fight in the courts.”
Declan snorted. “Fat lot of good that kind of fighting will do!”
“One day we will win. Justice will be done.”
“Justice!” Declan laughed. “You think the government will give you back your land?”
“Perhaps not all we ask. But some. Enough to make our spirits strong again.”
“So that’s what you meant by patience! Seems to me you’ll need plenty of it. In my country, we fight for what we’re entitled to. We don’t wait for someone to hand us what is ours. We fight to drive the English out of Ireland.”
“I know. I’ve seen pictures of Ulster, and I’ve seen how you kill each other.”
“Oh, have you, now!” said Declan angrily. “Well, first of all, we call it the North of Ireland, or the Six Counties. Only the Prods call it Ulster, because England has six of the nine Counties of the true Ulster. Second, the IRA is fighting for justice too! But they don’t have your so-called patience—I call it cowardice—to wait another hundred years for the English to give us what is ours!”
Joe crushed his lunch bag in a quivering fist, and stood up. “You are calling me a coward?”
Declan stood to face him, glaring.
The school bell rang. It was the end of the lunch period.
Declan sighed. “No, Joe. I didn’t mean to call you that.”
November was gone. The kitchen calendar turned at last to the wild stare of the eagle, and now the crayoned square, December 31, stood out as a crimson promise of freedom. Declan felt strong. Only one more month and he would be home!
Matthew asked Declan to help him with the fishing early one morning when the gulls were flocking offshore over the herring shoals.
There was only room for two in the boat. “Who usually goes out with you?” said Declan.
“Ana. She’s a good fisherman. Sometimes I go alone.”
Matthew rowed the boat and showed Declan how to use the herring rake, a long, thin pole full of sharp bristling nails, by sweeping it down into the water beside the boat and lifting it high, full of wriggling herring. They filled three buckets to the brim with herring in less than fifteen minutes.
“Why do you need so many herring?” said Declan.
“Bait for salmon.” Matthew sat down and pulled on the oars. “And I thought I might try some on the seal pup. Mash ‘em up. We’ve been feeding it milk and vitamins, but there’s not much improvement so far.”
Declan said nothing.
Matthew stopped rowing to show Declan how to place the hooks and lower a line for the salmon that were feeding underneath the shoal.
There was no wind. Declan’s jeans were covered in herring scales, his hands and sleeves too. He sat upright in the prow, holding the rod in two hands, waiting for a coho salmon to strike his herring bait. And when it did, his heart leaped with the salmon.
When they got back with their catch, Ana said, “Declan caught the coho?”
Matthew almost smiled. “He’s not bad.”
Ana grinned at Declan and winked.
Kate invented a special formula which they fed three times a day to the seal pup. Ana called it a fish shake. Kate mixed herrings, water, milk powder, vitamins, and cod liver oil in the blender. Declan became interested and began to enjoy helping with the feeding. He could not rid himself, however, of the thought that he was participating as another Fixer, and this always bothered him.
Kate poured some of the formula into a baby bottle, but the pup refused to drink it, pulling its head away and wailing like a baby. Matthew hit on the idea of pushing a plastic tube down its throat while Declan, Thomas and Ana held its head, and Matthew poured the fish shake a few drops at a time down the tube. Declan noticed that the pup’s body was warm; why did he expect it to be cold? he wondered.
After a week, the pup became used to the tube, swallowing it hungrily, and they were able to increase the amount of food.
Ana was delighted. “It’s going to live!” she said to Declan. “I knew we could save it.”
“We save it!” cried Thomas, excited.
“I wouldn’t have given twopence for its chances,” admitted Declan.
“What shall we call it?” said Ana. “We can’t keep saying it; it should have a name.”
“Is it a girl seal or a boy seal?” said Declan.
Ana had to admit she didn’t know. “We’ll ask Matthew.”
Matthew said he thought it was a boy.
“What about Harper Harbor Seal,” suggested Declan, “Harper for short.”
Thomas giggled. “Harper! Harper!”
“Harper it is,” said Ana.