The Cast Stone (15 page)

“You are charged with conspiracy against peace, order, and good government.”

“Read him his first option.”

“You may give a voluntary statement admitting the charge. Cooperation and truthfulness will be taken into consideration when final determination of your sentence is pronounced.”

“Ask him if he desires to give a voluntary statement at this time.”

Abe took a deep breath through the heavy black hood, considered what he might say.

“The subject declines to make a voluntary statement.” Reader sounded closer.

“Continue,” Teacher answered.

Abe breathed out slowly, measured.

The first jolt of pain began somewhere near the bottom of his abdomen, shot upwards through his body and ricocheted around inside his rib cage, sudden, sharp. It left Abe gasping inside the hood. The second jolt followed the same path, lasted several gasps longer. The third jolt did not stop. The pain tore through Abe's core, filled him, as though he was suddenly flooded with sulphuric acid, burned intensely forever, beyond gasps, beyond memory, beyond thought. It erased his brain, became the moment, the only moment in history, then tapered off, gradually allowing thought to return.
Storms never last, do
they baby.
The chorus of an old country song crooned in Abe's head as the pain diminished. He searched for the other words to the song, could not find them and repeated. Storms never last, do they baby. Put it to voice, a whisper “Storms never last, do they baby.”

“We have a singer.” Reader's voice sounded somewhere out in the audience.

“Terrorist training is confirmed.” Teacher sounded relieved.

“I don't understand.” A fourth voice, from further away.

“Terrorists are trained to sing, usually a battle song or one of the songs of their false religion. It is not too much different than the North American Indian singing their death chant,” Teacher explained. “It makes interrogation much more difficult because the subject removes himself consciously.” Teacher must have turned away. Abe could not make out the rest of his conversation. The pain ended, tapered off to nothing, empty. He smelled fresh vomit in the hood.

Wagner
. Abe recognized the opening to “The Ride of the Valkries”
. There must be speakers on both sides of my head.
Good choice
. The volume increased until the music was all that there was. Abe put himself into the music, rode the crescendos, kept himself conscious through the surges of pain that arched his body, knew his body writhed and thumped against the metal table, but it was far away. Abe rode a winged horse out of heaven, brandished a flaming sword in the war at the end of the world, rode Wagner's music, one of Abe's favourite works.

“Everyone talks.” Monica looked closer at Betsy. She seemed distant, further than the few feet across the back table of the Olympia Restaurant. Monica recalled when this back area was the smoking section, when she and Betsy Chance were in university together, when the discussion was about a different kind of revolution, about First Nations and the shelved Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples report.

“Abe will talk.” Monica tried to give her voice the extra distance needed to reach Betsy.

“So what. He doesn't know anything.” Betsy did not move any closer.

“He knows the names of everyone that was there.”

“So.”

“Don't be a bitch, Betsy.”

“I'm not, as you so delicately put it, being a bitch.” Betsy leaned her elbows on the table, arms folded, looked directly at Monica. “You have to learn to grow a thicker skin, sister. Who is it that you are worried about? The important people who were there are safe. Richard? They'll never find him. Abe never met That Jack, didn't know who he was. The only people at risk are that Mennonite woman and the environmentalist, what's her name?”

“Joan Lightning.”

“Yes her, and who else? They already knew about Roland. Who else might our friend Abe know about?”

“There's Ben Robe.”

“Oh yes, forgot about you and him. Monica you'll have to learn to let him go. He might have been something when you were a student. Now he's nobody. Even if they catch him, so what.”

“You've changed.” Monica leaned back. Now she wanted distance between herself and Betsy. “You used to be a good friend.”

“Don't pout. It makes your face all funny looking. Listen, Monica.” Betsy's voice softened slightly. “They have Abe, and I agree with you, everybody talks. Abe is probably not having a really nice time right now. So, he tells them everything that he knows. Still, so what. We still have the advantage. They can't build enough prisons, enough torture chambers. They can't get enough guards, or interviewers. They can't lock us all up. There are too many of us. Their focus is on finding the leaders. Those are the people to worry about.

“Even if Abe tells them about Ben — let's assume that for a minute — what's going to happen? They might go up there and arrest him, they might even interview him. But he doesn't know anything. Six months, a year maybe, and they'll release him. He'll go back up north and you can slip away and go see him in his wonderful cabin on the shore of his lake, your little romance will pick up again and you can lick his wounds for him.”

“Oh, you are a bitch, Betsy. You know damn well that we were only together once and nothing has happened for twenty years.”

“And I know that you still dream about him.” Betsy smiled mischievously.

“He's a good man.”

“I know.” Betsy's voice was soft now. “I know, but reality says he might get caught.”

“What about those two black shirts Ed has?”

“What about them?”

“A trade.”

“For who? For Abe?”

“Why not?”

“No.” Betsy shook her head while she thought about it. “No, we'll trade them, but for somebody important, like Edwin or Noland.”

“We don't even know if they're alive. Come on, Betsy, we know that Abe is strong. He'll hold out for a long time, there's still a chance. Edwin and Noland, don't get me wrong, I love those brothers, they were both good commanders. But do you think, even if we get them back after all this time, that they will be of any help? Think about it. Trade for a couple guys who will be so badly broken by now that all we can do is keep them safe, wipe the sweat from their brows as they convulse in terror. Even if we get them back now they'll be insane. Or do we trade for Abe, someone who has given everything for the resistance and we get back a full human being? And remember, Abe knows about you and me.”

“I'll think about it. You know it's not entirely my choice. Okay, I'll put Abe's name forward, but the council might not agree. In the meantime, I'm going to give you an order that you might enjoy. Go and tell Ben that he might be at risk and arrange some sort of protection.”

Moccasin Lake stretched north, flat and black until the lake met the black sky and northern lights danced on both. Elsie tugged at Benji's sleeve and they stepped back from the sand beach to where willow grew down to the high-water line. A boat split the ebony lake and headed straight for them. The driver cut the engine as it drew into the shallows, lifted the leg of the motor and let momentum wash the boat onto shore where Elsie and Benji had just stood. The man in the bow jumped out and pulled the boat higher onto the sand, reached into the boat, grabbed a rope and strung it out to the willows intent on tying to something secure.

“What the . . . ” he exclaimed when he caught sight of two human shapes behind the willow clump.

“Red.” Elsie recognized the voice. It matched the shape of her tall thin cousin.

“Who's that?” Red didn't recognise her voice.

“It's me, Elsie.”

“What the . . . ”

“What you doing here?” Elsie stepped out of the darker shadows into the mere dark, hugged her bewildered cousin.

Red nervously looked back at his partner getting out of the boat. “It's okay Mike, it's just Elsie lost or something.” He turned back to Elsie, held her at arm's length. “What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here? Come back for the wake or what?”

Mike began unloading plastic twenty-five-litre gas cans from the boat, plopping them into the sand. “Never mind your cousin. Let's get this boat empty.”

“Hey, Elsie, kind of busy now. Tell you what, here.” He picked up one of the cans and offered it to her. “Here take this, it's pure alcohol. Don't drink it. It's for your car. And I'll come up to the wake later and we can visit, okay.”

“Sure, Red.” She struggled with the weight of the can. “Where'd you get this?”

“We made it. But it's not for drinking. That shit will blind you if you try. It's just for your car.” Red carried a can in each hand. “Go back up to the gym, I'll see you later, okay Elsie? Hey, cuz, it's good to see you again.” And he disappeared up the trail toward the shape of a truck parked on the side of a little-used dirt track of a road.

“They sure misunderstood Quebec.” Leroy the Montreal Canadiens fan re-entered the conversation. “They seemed to think that the French would be on their side for some reason, didn't realize that Quebec wanted independence.”

“Yeah, independence from them too. They're sure putting up a fight down there.” Roderick looked around to see if the young lady with the big tea pot was in sight. She wasn't.

“It's like the Americans thought that all Quebecers hated Canada.” Ben followed Roderick's searching gaze, another cup of muskeg tea would be nice now. His throat was getting dry. “They must have thought Quebec would side with them against the rest of us. They sure got fooled on that one. Did you hear the news today? Sounds like Montreal is a fire storm. Strongest resistance anywhere comes from the French. Who would have thought?”

“Not that hard to predict.” Leroy looked for the big tea pot too. “It's like brothers or even sisters. Oh, they might argue between them, even act like they hate each other sometimes, but just try to get in between and you have both of them against you.”

The young woman with the big enamel pot did come around again, poured the last of the wild forest-scented tea into Styrofoam cups; it was cooler now and stronger. Ben only wished that he was drinking it out of a tin cup, the way his grandmother used to pass it to him; evenings with Grandpa, stories, and Ben trying not to burn his hands on the hot metal cup. Styrofoam gave the tea a chemical taste. Oh well, it was still good, soothing on his dry throat.

Elsie and Benji came back into the gymnasium. A quiet stillness had begun to settle over the people there and despite Benji's wanting to get to know her more and more, the quiet in the gym prevented him from speaking.

The night deepened. Young mothers took their children home first, then others drifted out. Groups of visitors became quiet as people gradually left. Standing first for a moment by the open casket, touching Elroy's cold, folded hands one last time, they said their final goodbyes, then walking around shaking people's hands, and promising to “See you tomorrow,” they found the door and the dark. Roderick followed protocol early, “I'm about done in here, boys,” and only Leroy and Ben remained.