Andrei and the Snow Walker Page 3

  “Out of the way!” the man says, and with his free arm he shoves Andrei to the side. His mother grabs his hand, pulling him back to the station wall.

  All around him Andrei sees beds, cupboards, a steam-engine on a flatcar, crates of live chickens, and pigs. There is not a quiet spot anywhere. Empty wagons back up to the loading platform, the drivers tugging leather reins getting the horses to step back.

  Andrei notices his father and Dido across the road. When his mother’s turned the other way, he runs to join them on the sidewalk.

  “Paraska said flour, for certain.” Tato dumps coins from a cloth pouch into his palm, counting them; three of the bigger ones that are quarter dollars, and one ten-cent piece. After giving money to the wagon driver, they have less than one dollar left.

  “And sugar,” Dido says. “Tea.” He gestures with open hands forward, palms up.

  “The homestead’s supposed to be in the bush,” Tato says. “We can snare rabbits. Surely there must be rabbits.”

  “If that’s all the money we have left,” Dido says, “that little you have in your hand, we will have to make soup with Paraska’s seeds.”

  “She said flour. Paraska has nothing left in the food bag. Only crumbs. You might be right. We might have to eat the seeds.”

  “You shouldn’t have paid the wagon driver,” Dido says.

  “You are going to carry the trunk on your back? Twenty-five miles?”

  Andrei follows them into a store. His father approaches the counter with his head lowered, staring at his coins. Dido nudges him with his elbow. Before either one says anything, the storekeeper behind the counter pats his white apron and shouts, “Well for goodness sake! Look who’s come to Canada! If it isn’t Stefan Bayda! And he brought old Danylo with him!”

  Tato backs into Andrei, nearly knocking him to the floor. “I don’t believe it!” he says.

  Andrei recognizes him. The old storeman from Zabokruky. The Jewish merchant who sold his tavern to his nephew two years ago.

  “You’re here?” Tato says, spreading his hands apart then clapping them together. His coins fall to the floor and he bends to pick them up.

  “As far as I know,” Sam Zitchka says. “How’s my store? Does my lazy nephew know what he’s doing? Is he making any money?” Sam Zitchka laughs and hurries from behind the counter. He embraces Tato, kissing him on both cheeks, then repeating the ritual with Dido.

  “You bought a farm?” he asks. “How are you getting there?”

  Tato points out the window to the team and wagon. An elderly man smoking a pipe and wearing a wide flat-brimmed hat sits perched up front. His left arm appears to hang limp.

  “Moise Desjardin. The ferryman,” Zitchka says. “He’s got only one good arm, but you can depend on him. Let me see your deed.” Tato shows him the document he got from the Land Titles Office in Saskatoon. The merchant studies it a moment, then goes outside to the driver. Sam points at the paper and the driver purses his lips, puffs a few times on his pipe, then nods his head. Sam nods also and comes back into the store.

  “You’ll need some things,” he says.

  “I have money,” Tato says, laying the coins on the counter one at a time. “But not a lot. It has been a long trip from our village.”

  “Maybe enough for tobacco,” the merchant says. “But your credit is good here. If I can’t trust a fellow countryman, who can I trust?”

  In no time the counter’s piled with a bag of flour, a smaller bag of cornmeal, a pail of lard, salt, tea, matches, a small pane of glass, a pound of iron nails. Zitchka writes the items down in a book.

  “You’re not asking me what I need?” Tato asks. “My wife has a long list in her head.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what you need. You tell me if I miss anything.”

  “I can’t pay till my first crop. Will there be season long enough this year?”

  “Only God knows. But you and Danylo come back here as soon as you can. The Mennonites hire men to work on their farms. They pay you, and you pay me. Try Jake Klassen, just west of town.”

  “Thank you,” Tato says. He shakes Zitchka’s hand, and then he takes a step back and bows. “Thank you, thank you,” he says again. He rubs the knuckles from both of his hands over his eyes, then moves forward to the counter and lifts the bag of flour to his shoulder. Dido, Andrei, and the merchant carry the remaining supplies to the wagon.

  Mama stands at the edge of the railway platform, a hand on each cheek. “Oi!” she says. “Oi! Oi!” She stares at the load of groceries, then turns to Marusia. “Oi! Oi! Oi! See, Marusia? See what they have?” But at the very next moment she faces Tato again, and her look of joy and amazement changes to a frown of doubt and suspicion.

  “I can’t believe it either,” Tato says. “Remember Sam Zitchka?” Mama nods. “He’s the storekeeper here.”

  “What are you telling me?” Mama asks. “Sam Zitchka. On the other side of the world, and here is Sam Zitchka. And you didn’t steal those groceries.”

  “Honest to God, he was there in the store, and he offered to help us.”

  “Not only offered,” Dido says. “He insisted.”

  “That’s right,” Tato says. “‘Pay me in November,’ Zitchka said. ‘After the harvest.’ He gave me the flour just like that, and corn meal, salt, matches, even a glass for a window, and a pound of iron nails. He said that there is a Mennonite farmer, Klassen, close by here who needs hands to work on his farm as soon as Dido and I can get back. We will come to earn money as soon as we get you settled at the homestead.”

  “Where is this home?” Mama asks, with a hint of joy on her face.

  “Moise Desjardin will take us part way,” Tato says. “To the river. His nephew will take us from there.” Moise sits up on the wagon, his only movement a slow motion of his right hand holding a pipe, a blow of smoke; and then with the pipestem clenched in his teeth, he raises his hand and tugs gently on the broad and stiff brim of his black hat.

  “At the river we cross on a ferry,” Tato says. “Sam Zitchka told me that this old man’s nephew is running the ferry for him while he came here for mail. Zitchka says that this nephew has even better horses that can take us to the homestead.”

  The Baydas leave Rosthern, heading east through drizzle toward the Saskatchewan River. So far the land is flat as the land of Cossacks on the Steppe, all of it grassland patched with dull grey bluffs of leafless poplar. The air is filled with the sweet smell of the grass. They had been warned about biting flies and mosquitoes, but strangely there are none. Maybe it’s too early in the season. Andrei and Dido sit up on the trunk, facing to the front. They will come to a broad valley. At the station Father was told for the second time that the land where Ukrainians are settling lies on the other side of this valley’s river.

  The driver reaches over with his right arm and pulls the lever for the wheel brakes, the wagon skidding down into the valley, leather breeching strained in the white-foamed sweat on the rumps of the horses. One of the horses is limping.

  The trail winds through patches of brush, the river wandering far below, visible now and again, a broad river with stretches of exposed sand. Andrei can see the hills on the other side, like the Carpathians, but not as green, the trees not yet in leaf, the new grass just beginning.

  “See the hills, Dido?”

  “Not really hills,” Dido says, lifting his smoldering pipe and pointing to each side of the wagon. “Here a river has cut a broad valley. See far across to the other side? More than a mile, I’m guessing. Our trail winds far below us to the water, but this valley must at one time have been filled with a very big river.”

  At the riverbank they wait for the ferry. As it nears, Andrei watches the cable stretched across the river, sees it taut on the boat’s turning pulleys, the river’s current propelling the boat. Moise’s nephew, who Sam Zitchka talked about, lifts a rope from a post and lowers the ferry’s apron to the shallow water at the shore. The horses walk into the water, skittish, the way the Holochuk girls
would wade into the river at Zabokruky, and the animals step up in a hurry onto the ramp, without Moise’s urging. Andrei hears the knocks and thuds and clacks of their hooves striking the plank decking. He considers that two, and no more than three wagons could fit on this ferry. That’s all there is, an open deck with square wooden posts supporting a waist-high railing along each side.

  The nephew wears a black hat with a high crown and a wide, flat brim. He has the same dark skin as Moise, though he’s much younger, reminding Andrei of Petrus Shumka. He has a sash tied around his waist like a Ukrainian. He talks to Moise in a language different from that spoken by the officials on the train.

  Moise points to the Baydas. The nephew shrugs then nods his head. Andrei watches as he turns a wheel that pulls on the cable, somehow swinging the bow to face upstream, and the boat starts its journey back across the river.

  In less than ten minutes, they are at the other side. The nephew drives Moise’s team onto the east shore and up the bank to a barnyard. A boy the size of Andrei sits on a rail. Two black horses look out over the same rail. When the wagon comes to a stop, Mama peers up to the boy and then to the young man.

  “What people are you?” Mama asks.

  “I am Métis,” the nephew says in broken Ukrainian. “I am Gabriel Desjarlais. Métis like my Uncle Moise.” He steps off the wagon and unhitches the team. “We’ll use my horses. Uncle Moise’s mare has a limp. Uncle Moise wasn’t born yesterday. He has your three dollars, and I take you. Your names are...?”

  “I am Andrei, and this is Marusia,” Andrei says.

  “Marusia,” Gabriel says, doffing his hat to Andrei’s sister. “That is Marie, in the French language, and my brother here, his name is Chi Pete.”

  “Shouldn’t your uncle take us the rest of the way?” Mama asks. She whispers to Tato, and Andrei attempts to hear what she’s saying. Something about Gypsies. Now and then a band of Gypsies used to camp by their village. Mama was always telling Andrei to stay away, even if she herself would visit one of their women to have her fortune told. She’s whispering to Tato, wondering if these dark-skinned men at the ferry are Gypsies.

  “Ahh,” Tato says, “What do you women think, Paraska? Just because they aren’t Ukrainian, you think they will cheat you? Did the Jewish merchant cheat us?”

  “You must be Indians,” Dido says. “I heard our countrymen at the station talk of battles up and down these riverbanks. The Indians crippled a steamship.”

  “The Métis,” Gabriel says. “Louis Riel. Gabriel Dumont. Uncle Moise fought with them. He fought three days defending Batoche and had a bullet go through his upper arm.” Gabriel talks while he and his young brother hitch the fresh team to the wagon. Soon they are back on a trail heading east through country more rugged, more heavy with bush than the land they had already covered west of the river.

  Dido has chosen to sit up at the front where he can talk with Gabriel.

  “Your uncle doesn’t speak Ukrainian?” Dido asks.

  “No, just French, Cree, and English.”

  “He fought in a battle? Why were they fighting?”

  “For the freedom of our Métis people,” Gabriel says. “For our land.”

  “You lost?” Dido asks.

  “Our riflemen ran out of bullets,” Gabriel says. “Uncle Moise could tell you more if he knew your language.”

  “Our Cossacks fought to save our land,” Dido says. “Three hundred years ago. Hetman Bayda-Vyshnevetsky with thirty-five thousand Cossacks riding on horses and swiping with sabres that could cut a man in half.”

  “They lost?” Gabriel asks.

  “Not at Zabokruky. They successfully defended our village from the Polish army.”

  “And three hundred years later, where is Ukraine?” Tato asks. “The Austrian kings rule Zabokruky, and the Polish land-lords own the land.”

  “Thirty-five thousand Cossacks,” Dido says, as if refusing to hear what Tato has said.

  “You are French?” Tato asks. “Sam Zitchka told me that your uncle speaks French, and a Native language...some kind of Indian. Anyway, your uncle is supposed to know where to take us. Zitchka assured me that your uncle knows. But what do you know?”

  “You have the paper,” Gabriel says. “I can find the iron stake.”

  It’s a strange country, all new to Andrei’s father. He passes the deed to Gabriel and shrugs his shoulders. “What else can a man do?” he says, turning to Mama. “Paraska, it is lucky that here in Canada we found Sam Zitchka. He knows who we can trust.”

  “Only four more miles,” Gabriel says. Andrei likes the young man’s looks, especially the hat. Even Marusia sneaks a glance at him. Andrei decides that the Baydas will do just fine. Everything will be all right. Besides, there is still the Skomar talisman inside the bag to think about.

  Chi Pete sits at the front of the wagon with Gabriel. Andrei wishes that he could be there too. The boy turns his head now and then, glancing back with eyes half-closed.

  Across the river and out of the valley, they follow a trail through a countryside filled with bush, meadow, water, and hills. Ducks swim, young ones trailing in lines after their mothers. The drizzle of rain has stopped, but the sky remains heavy with clouds. Mama peers around in every direction, eyes cautious, ever so watchful. Nobody lives out here. Where are they going to sleep? What if it starts raining again? She turns to Tato. He remains stone-faced, staring out at the wall of trees.

  Andrei wonders if the boy Chi Pete has a horse of his own. If he hunts. If he has a rifle.

  “Eggs,” Mama says, pointing as a duck flies up from its nest. “Are they good to eat?”

  The wagon stops. “You boys jump off and gather them,” Gabriel says. “We can have eggs for supper.”

  By late afternoon the party has found the survey stake and the homestead quarter, matching the numbers to those on Tato’s paper: sw 8/42/28/w3.

  “Here we are,” Gabriel says. Andrei gazes all around. There is no village, no house anywhere, just trees and grass, and it’s starting to rain again. They are in a small clearing, just big enough for a house and yard, and in the distance they see what looks like a tiny lake, which Gabriel says is a slough. He points west in the direction they have come.

  “There are fish in the river,” he says.

  “Lots of wood here to keep us warm,” Tato says.

  “Lots of wood to keep out the sun,” Mama says, looking up at rolling clouds of black and blue.

  “Lots of wood for a good house,” Tato says.

  Everyone gets off the wagon. Gabriel and Chi Pete unhitch the horses and tether them out to graze. The family stands motionless in a circle, facing one another as if uncertain what to do next.

  Finally Tato climbs back up on the wagon and takes a shovel from the trunk. He digs into the sod, turning over heavy clumps. Both he and Dido scoop lumps of black dirt with their hands, crumbling it and letting the soil fall through their fingers. Mama joins them. She cups the soil in her hands, smelling it. They eye each other, and Tato nods. On their knees, the three adults make the sign of the cross. Mama motions for Marusia and Andrei to join them. Off by the horses, both Gabriel and Chi Pete do the same.

  After the prayer, Andrei’s father opens the trunk again, taking out an axe and hatchet, and the iron ring stand to place over a cooking fire. If Andrei can chop some dry firewood, Mama can fry duck eggs. They’ve bought flour, lard, and salt at the store, and mushrooms grow everywhere in the bush.

  Chi Pete says something in their own language to his older brother.

  “Why not?” Gabriel says, taking up the hatchet. He cuts a willow ten feet long, peels bark in long strips to fashion a loop snare, and binds it tightly to the end of the pole. “If you wish, follow me,” he says, and he leads the curious party into the bush.

  Gabriel puts his finger to his lips, then points upward to a tree. Chi Pete puts his hand on Andrei’s shoulder. No one should move an inch. A bird sits on a branch. Gabriel lifts the pole, placing the loop around the bird’s hea
d, and with a jerk he has the bird held fast in the snare.

  Back at their village, Andrei has many times watched his mother pluck the feathers off a chicken. But Gabriel doesn’t do this. What he does is so quick and easy that Andrei can’t tell for sure how it happens. Gabriel sets the bird down on its back, spreads its wings and steps on them. In one motion, a quick jerk, he pulls on the claw feet, and like magic, the bird’s dressed, or undressed. It’s as if Gabriel has unwrapped a parcel. He’s pulled away the feathers and skin, taking with it the bird’s head, the backbone, and the insides. He breaks off the wingtips and hands the remaining meat to Tato.

  “Will you and your brother be so kind then to join us for supper?” Tato asks with a big grin on his face.

  “We will be honoured to,” Gabriel says.

  Tato hands the skinned bird to Mama, then turns around in a full circle, all the while looking up over the tops of the trees. “All of this, ours,” he says and he spreads his hands wide. Mama and Dido peer into the trees. Marusia reaches into the chest and pulls out the cast iron frying pan.

  Mama browns the meat in the frying pan, and then she stews it with wild mushrooms and dumplings made with the flour. She fries the duck eggs. Then she takes more flour and makes a fried bread. Marusia gets dishes and eating utensils from the trunk, fills plates, and hands the food around. Andrei is ever so hungry, and he could swear that he has never in his life tasted anything as good as this. He’s never felt as relaxed...certainly not since he has left his home in Zabo-kruky. He wishes only that he could feed a morsel of his fried bread to Brovko. His dog would like it, especially with the gravy. He can see that his two new friends like it.

  “It looks and tastes like my mother’s bannock,” Gabriel says, as he sops gravy from his plate with the bread.

  They sip hot tea and for a long time stare at the fire, until Marusia starts gathering up dishes. Tato shakes Gabriel’s hand. Andrei shakes Gabriel’s hand too, and then Chi Pete’s.