The Cast Stone (35 page)

Her sadness rose in her throat and began to choke her, a burn ignited beneath her eyes, and the moisture started to flow high in her nostrils. The door slammed behind her as she continued to button her parka, marched down the unshoveled walk toward the street. She would not cry, would not be weak. Cold air filled her, purified her. She drew it in deep, gasped it, pushed it out and drew in more. It opened her throat and eased the sting, promised to freeze any tears that dared to appear. Monica found gloves in her pocket and pulled them on, continued to breathe deeply and walk. Walk an empty street. She stepped off the snow-covered sidewalk, to march down the hard pack of rare traffic.

She wasn't going anywhere. She was just going.

Freedom Friday marchers, silent, voiceless, only the crunch of boots on snow, walked four abreast down Idylwyld Drive.

Jason's marched in unison with his wife on his left. The woman on his right was more often out of step than she was in. It didn't matter. She was a body, another body in the march. That's what it was about for Jason, the number of bodies that showed up every Friday at four. His personal count was ninety-seven consecutive Fridays, even last Christmas that just happened to fall on the chosen fifth day. For Jason every Friday was a Good Friday. His wife Elise, her arms swinging beside him had a personal count of over a hundred.

The marchers did not speak. This was not a chanting, screaming demonstration. He liked it this way. It was more dignified, solemn. Words are useless when they are shouted, or screamed, or mindlessly chanted, sound for the sake of sound. He liked this form of protest, this serious, almost religious form, a moving vow of silence, in unison. He took a quick half-step so that he was marching with the woman. She was in step with the man beyond her, an older man, almost old, with a slight but noticeable limp. The marchers tried to step in unison, but were often unable. With time and repetition, the veterans learned how to accommodate the novice, to shift step, and fall in. Mostly it worked.

Homeland Security watched the marchers, one at every intersection from 33rd all the way down the hill to 22nd, cold, stamping their feet to keep warm, shifting their weapons slung over their shoulders. The men and women and the occasional child, stomped past the black uniforms, looked straight ahead, heads high, determined, serene.

Monica stopped when she saw the soldier. He was not the human she was looking for. Then she saw the marchers coming down the street behind him. Fools, she thought. They could march forever and nothing would change. Change needed action. A couple hundred people every Friday didn't even make the local paper, an exercise in futility at worst, at best just exercise. But, they were human. She walked forward, past the black parka, stood at the curb, watched for a place where she might step into formation, watched the faces of the marchers coming down from her left. A mix of ages, an occasional teenager, but most of them were older, some were even old.

The first ranks were all full. Monica hoped she would not have to fall in at the end. She did not want to be last, a tagalong. She wanted to belong, in the middle somewhere, shoulder to shoulder with someone. If not, then she would carry on alone she decided. Why participate in a fool's parade?

“
Ben
” she almost shouted at the old man in the green canvas coat. He turned at his name. A smile twisted his face. “Monica, come on.” He swung a weak right arm out as if to draw her in. Monica skipped along as she tried to get into step with the marchers beside him. “What are you doing here?”

“Later.” Ben continued to march, kept protocol.

The woman at his left touched his elbow, indicated with a twist and nod of her head that she would give her spot to Monica, and graciously stepped out of rank behind him.

Four more blocks, just four more, Monica's head swam with questions as she marched along beside Ben. She wanted to lean over and brush shoulders with him, but she was afraid to bump him. He looked as though he was using all his strength just to keep walking, stumbling, as though he was dragging his left leg. The limp was slight but noticeable. A stroke, she concluded. Ben has had a stroke.

The march ended in a jumble of people, smiles, chatter after the silence.

“Jason.” He held his hand out first to Monica, then to Ben.

“Monica.”

“Ben.”

They responded and shook his hand in turn.

“My wife, Elise.”

Another round of handshakes. Monica removed her glove for the pleasure of it.

“We're going to Tim Hortons. Why don't you join us? On me.” Jason indicated down the street.

“Sure,” Ben wanted something hot.

Monica wanted to be wherever Ben was. “Before we go anywhere, you are going to tell me how the hell you got here.”

“I walked.”

“You walked?” Monica held Ben's arm, walked beside him, pressed against him. “Where from?” She looked into his face. It was different, twisted sort of.

“From the Correctional Centre out at the north end.” Ben was having trouble walking with Monica hanging onto him. “I'm not sure what happened. This morning she gave me this coat, walked me to the gate and stood at attention while I walked out. She never said anything. Just pushed some papers into my hand. I haven't even read them yet.”

“Who's she?”

“A guard. Just one of the many.”

“So how did you come to be marching with us?” Jason was listening, walking behind Ben and Monica, holding Elise's hand.

“You were going the same direction I was.” Ben looked over his shoulder. “I just joined in.”

The coffee at Tim Hortons was okay. Ben would have preferred Roastery coffee for his first taste of freedom, fresh roasted, fresh ground. But, Timmy's wasn't bad he had to admit. Not bad at all.

The lineup at the counter grew as Freedom Friday Marchers sought to warm themselves with a hot cup. Several who walked past their table stopped to pat Jason on the shoulder, on the back, or just to lay a hand on his head, a ceremony of touching.

“You're well known,” Monica noticed.

Elise explained with a proud smile at her husband. “He started the march.”

“You don't worry about HS?” Monica looked at Ben. ” Leaders are known to disappear.”

“They haven't bothered us.” Jason's elbows were on the table, his cup held in both hands. “It seems that if the media are watching, HS behaves. Lance from CTV is there every week. Even though it rarely makes it on air, just the camera keeps us safe.”

“But then I guess you're not doing much. I mean you stop traffic for a bit. But everyone has learned not to take Idylwyld Friday afternoon.”

“We're doing a lot.” Elise defended against Monica's dismissive comment. “Look at how many people are out every week. That in itself is something.”

“But, you're not going to chase the Americans out with a few hundred marchers.”

“We're not marching to chase the Americans out. Freedom Friday is about an end to all war. It's about imagining peace. That's why we don't yell and chant. We come together and walk together and imagine peace. It's also a prayer, a silent prayer. And it's working. Every week there are a few more people. One or two more that can imagine a world without war.”

“Prayer!” Monica was indignant. “Religion is a weapon. Look at what happened historically in Afghanistan. When the Soviets invaded it, the Americans joined with the Muslims in Pakistan to fight godless communism. They printed thousands of Korans, created religious fervour, and it came back to bite the Christians in the ass on September 11th. Look at what's going on now. It's the Christian Right that feeds the government that attacked us.”

The wind stopped.

Red stopped.

Benji kept walking.

“Hey!”

Benji turned at the word, loud in the new quiet broken only by the crunch of snow around his boots.

“What?”

“I don't know.”

Moose tracks, fresh, led away through the stark black tamarack, trees highlighted here and there with phosphorous-coloured hanging moss.

Benji turned, faced Red, shifted the strap on the rifle higher on his shoulder, the borrowed rifle, the rifle Benji desperately wanted to fire to kill the promised moose. Red looked at the sky, a boiling grey black low sky, a sky that should be accompanied by wind.

“I was thinking about maybe circling ahead if we found an open spot for you to wait. Let him get a sniff of me so that he turns back.”

Benji looked around, looked for the open spot. It wasn't anywhere near. Here was all thick, stunted muskeg tamarack standing in bough-deep snow. Only the moose tracks and their own tracks broke the whiteness.

“There's no wind.” Red explained.

“Hey, that's right.” Benji looked around again.

There had been wind all morning, strong wind that rattled the snow loose from the trees, wind that buried the moose tracks. Red, the hunter, needed wind to hide in, to show him how fresh the tracks were, to silence the clomp of Benji's boots.

Wind was his friend. He looked at the sky again.

“We better get out of here, over there to that stand of spruce.” Red pointed north.

“What about the moose.” Benji looked at the tracks that led west.

“Later.” Red started running.

They were not quite into the spruce when the first hailstones hit, driven hard by the new stronger wind that wasn't Red's friend anymore. This was an angry wind that tried to find the two men huddled under the heavy spreading boughs of the towering white spruce.

“This ain't supposed to fuckin' happen. It's January.” Red's curses didn't slow the hammering ice. He crouched close to the tree's trunk, circled around to the lee side and sat down with his back to the rough bark. Benji followed, sat beside him, fumbled with the rifle and strap that tangled him. Golf-ball-sized hail beat fiercely against the branches above them, blocked out the world in a violent curtain of white beyond the edges of the bouncing boughs, roared its anger and punished the earth as it tore down smaller branches and broke the weaker trees.

“It's not supposed to hail in January,” Red repeated.

Benji wasn't sure, depended upon Red, to track the moose, to say if tracks were fresh or old, to know which direction was home, which was safe, which would lead to the end of the hunt. Benji didn't want to hunt anymore. He stared at the wall of driven ice, listened to the rough rattle of it. He looked to Red. Red wasn't afraid. He was angry. Benji let go of the fear that had been tightening around him, accepted what was happening as nature.

“Did you do anything to piss Rosie off?” Red stopped, waited for Benji to catch up, a few steps behind in the tracks Red ploughed through the snow. The snow wasn't fluffy anymore. It was hammer-packed by the hail that lay in a solid layer on top and made walking difficult.

“What's that?” Benji caught up, shifted the rifle strap.

“Did you piss Rosie off?”

“No, not that I know of. Why?”

“You don't know?”