CHAPTER 1
The border gave Danny a start. He’d been driving all day, no particular destination in mind, but with a vague stirring of unease at the diminishing traffic, the absence of towns and fields and power lines, the impenetrable canyon of trees boxing in the road.
Suddenly he found himself approaching a bouquet of flagpoles and a large sign that bore the stylized image of an animal, white with a large butt and three legs, and the words North-West Territory. In front of the sign was some kind of fortification, a row of concrete blocks, the sort of thing a person might be glad of in case of machinegun fire.
“Wow,” said Danny. He’d heard of the North-West Territory, a vast tract of land perched at the top of Canada, but so remote it was almost mythical. He didn’t know you could drive there.
He crossed the border and found a niche hacked out of the trees, just enough room for a smattering of simple buildings. The first was better kept than the others, with a low shady front and the vaguely official look of a frontier post. He parked out front half-expecting a uniformed trooper to appear and demand his papers. Inside, the building was dark and gloomy, empty except for a few flies and a woman snoring fitfully.
A poster on the wall invited him to survive a bear attack, while brochures in wire racks threatened to give his pocketbook a mauling. He plucked three at random from their metal claws. They suggested he catch a fish, bag a bison, and sip champagne at the North Pole. The cost was so outrageous, so beyond his means, that laughter gurgled out of him.
The woman yawned and blinked, and said something unintelligible. Danny wondered if she were talking in her sleep.
“What?” he asked.
“I said, ‘Welcome to the Mysterious North.’”
“Yeah, but in what language?”
“Slavey, one of our eight official tongues.”
Danny grinned. “That’s a lot of tongues. How many do you speak?”
“Just three.” She handed him a map, which he accepted gratefully, not having set eyes on one for days. His expression changed when he went outside and spread it on the hood of his car. There was an awful lot of empty space – just three or four roads and the rest was lake, forest, tundra, and the migration routes of mosquitoes. No wonder it was free. The cover said Official Explorer’s Map. Probably you were expected to fill it in yourself.
He got back in his car and drove to the next batch of buildings, a gas station and café, both made from chinked logs and trying hard to look quaint. Several vehicles were parked in front of the café, displaying the most peculiar licence plate he’d ever seen, diecut in the shape of an animal similar to the three-legged one on the sign, but now compressed into a rectangular shape.
He filled up his gas tank, and when he went inside to pay, asked about the odd licence plate. “What’s that supposed to be, some kind of rodent? A white rat maybe?”
The man behind the till looked up. “It’s a polar bear, symbol of the Territory.”
“No kidding? You get many around here?”
The man gave him a dry look. “What do you think?”
“I guess they don’t go in much for trees.”
The man’s face softened as he handed across Danny’s change. “Actually they like the shade. Keep an eye open, you might see one.”
“Thanks, I will,” said Danny. He stepped into the Border Café, its name spelled out with sticks over the entrance, the log walls dark with varnish and sporting a number of leaping fish and furry disembodied heads. The place was empty but for a shady crew of pipe-smokers, and a family of overfed tourists in gay summer clothing, sweating into plates of hamburgers and fries. He selected a place in the corner with his back to the wall and buried his face in a menu. His free hand came to rest alongside a bowl of condiments at the center of the table. After a while he peeped over the top of the menu and surveyed the café.
The family of tourists was just leaving. The other group remained in smoky conversation, gassing about their pipes apparently. Perhaps they belonged to some sort of smokers club. Marsfontein was mentioned, but not briar or meerschaum, and there was much laughter when someone suggested passing around the peace pipe. Danny returned his attention to the menu and edged his hand closer to the condiments.
“Sputniki,” a character in a checked shirt was saying. The garment had lumpy pockets and was open halfway to his navel. The overall effect suggested an unnatural union between a nerd and a biker. “That’s how Chuckie found his first pipe.”
“One-More-Sample Chuckie,” said another, in a mousechewn cableknit sweater. He ground his eyebrows together until they resembled a row of knuckles, and muttered something about a cartel.
“Alrosa,” chimed in a third, with short pants and scabby knees, and ears that looked as if they’d been squeezed out of a tube. “They inked a deal with De Beers worth $550 million. That ought to keep Boris in vodka.”
“I hear Ekati’s going to use a voice stress analyzer.”
“Moneytown oughta get down and plant a juicy one on BHP’s ass.”
A chair scraped and someone on the periphery of the group thrust his elbows forward, a stocky fellow in a rumpled ill-fitting suit. He had blocky cheekbones and a low shelving forehead that compressed the rest of his features into a sharp animal face. He was the only one not smoking. “Forget about pipes for a minute and ask yourselves this: how many louts does it take to stake half-a-million acres?”
There was a moment of puzzled silence, during which Danny’s hand pounced and carried off a packet of ketchup.
“Lots,” the man went on, “and all of them need logistical support, some place they can call up on the radio and say we’re out of beans and pancake syrup, and poor old Smitty blew the arse end out of his longjohns and needs a new pair, and while you’re at it, could you send up the Saturday Globe and Mail? It’s called expediting.”
There was an awkward pause during which Danny pocketed more ketchup. Someone cleared his throat and said, “Personally I’d stick with chrome diopside.”
Immediately others chimed in with cries of “Pyropes!” and “Ilmenites!”
The man rose out of his chair. “You guys might as well be playing the ponies,” he sneered, exposing his hip like a gunfighter. From a holster on his belt he withdrew a palm-sized device, a remote of some sort, which he waved in the air like a weapon. His thumb jabbed down and outside the café a vehicle started up.
“Any of you idiots ever want to make some real money, look me up.” He blew imaginary smoke from the remote, threw down a business card as though playing a trump, and walked out.
The pipe enthusiasts regarded each other in astonishment.
“What was all that about?”
“You know him?”
“No, I thought you did.”
Danny looked out the window and watched the man climb into a fiery-colored half-ton with muscular fenders and snarling wheel wells. Then his view was blocked by a wide-hipped waitress, come at last to take his order. He put aside the menu and asked for a cup of coffee, waiting as she scribbled on a tiny pad. When she moved out of the way, the truck was gone.
The coffee tasted as though it had been brewed in a crankcase. He cut it with numerous thimbles of oily cream substitute and sipped in a meditative fashion, biding his time and continuing to pocket condiments. Finally the members of the pipe club rose to leave. By the time they reached the door, he was on his feet, strolling past the table they’d occupied. The business card was still there. He scooped it up and gave it a quick sniff. The embossed text smelled faintly of aftershave.
Knave of Diamonds Expediting
Carboniferous Building
Yellowknife, NWT
On the back was the replica of a playing card, the jack garbed in a business suit and clutching a microphone instead of a sword.
Musing, Danny returned to his table. Something about the name, Yellowknife, tugged at his memory. Had it been in the news recently? He swallowed down the remainder of his coffee, now cold and anemic, then paid up and went outside. His vehicle was the only one left, a rust-dappled two-door with mismatched fenders.
“What make is that?” asked the guy who’d explained the polar bear licence plates. He was leaning against the wall, sunning himself.
Danny had no idea, and said so. The car was a mongrel, rebuilt so many times its identity was a mystery. “Say,” he added, “you know of a place called Moneytown?”
“Why, that would be our esteemed capital, Sombak’e. Yellowknife to you.”
“Moneytown,” said Danny. “I like it already.”
“Gold, diamonds, you name it.”
“Seriously?”
“You know what they say about the North. Land of opportunity.”
Inside the car Danny kicked at the gas pedal and stuck a piece of wire through a hole in the dashboard. He wiggled it as though tickling the motor. The car started up, its tailpipe wagging. As he pulled onto the highway, heading north, he racked his brain for everything he knew about the North-West Territory. There wasn’t much. Snow and ice, mad trappers, ferocious beasts. And the Klondyke, of course, which was famous for something or other, he couldn’t remember what. Wait a minute, hadn’t a lot of people died trying to get there?
He knotted his hands around the steering wheel and thrust out his chin, ready for anything. Soon the avenue through the trees narrowed and the road fell into disrepair, giving way to long stretches of slippery gravel. Potholes made the car jump, and dust trailed from his wheels like smoke. A transport truck barrelled around a curve and nearly forced him off the road. A burnt-out RV went by in a ditch. Masses of bugs hurtled into the windshield as though defending their airspace, and ravens, banqueting on roadkill, waited till the last possible moment before heaving themselves into the air with an insolent shrug. One waited too long, and Danny had to swerve to avoid hitting it. Instantly there was a grinding noise and the car reeled as though struck. He checked in the rearview mirror expecting to see pistons bouncing down the road.
Presently he came to the Mackenzie River, a broad surly flow spilling toward the Arctic Ocean. A ferry took him across and deposited him near the village of Fort Providence. Aptly named, he thought, for it was providential he’d made it this far. The smell of hot oil pervaded the car, and the air over the hood was bent like rippled glass. At a truck stop he scraped bug jam off the windshield and used the last of his money for gas and a loaf of bread. Using the condiments he’d filched from the Border Café, he made himself a mustard, relish, and ketchup sandwich. Chewing, he considered whether or not to push on. Yellowknife was only hours away and there was no sign of darkness.
As he pondered the matter, he noticed a bearded oldtimer dumping ice cubes into the back of a half-ton. Wondering why, he moved in for a better look and observed a cage with a bear cub inside. Its fur was the same color as the man’s beard.
“Is that...?” he began in a wondering voice.
“Yeah, it’s a polar bear.”
“Wow.”
He ogled the cub till the fellow drove off, then jumped back in his car and goosed the motor. Gamely the little vehicle roused itself and wobbled onto the highway. Beyond Fort Providence the road was straight as a ruler and coated with fresh blacktop, but the lack of potholes soon had an adverse effect on Danny. He began to nod off. He’d been wandering the road system for days, and even though the light seemed inexhaustible, he was not. He managed a few more miles, but his eyes were raw and grainy and his head felt heavy as an anchor. He had to get some rest.
He found a side road leading to a borrow pit, screened from the highway by a fringe of stubby spruce. He crawled into a frayed sleeping bag in the back seat, and fell asleep trying to imagine what Yellowknife looked like and why the name troubled him. In his dreams, he had a girlfriend with three tongues and they were rowing a boat across the Explorer’s Map, followed closely by a spouting sea monster. A wind sprang up and the boat began to rock, slowing their progress. He stirred and opened his eyes. It seemed to be morning. The rocking continued. What?
As he sat up, something very large struck the car with a crash, knocking him to the floor. He kicked off the sleeping bag and crawled into the front seat, just as the car shuddered again and slid sideways several feet. The door on the driver’s side folded inward with a groan, the window fissuring. The door wobbled and squealed as something wrenched and tugged at it, then disappeared entirely.
Through the open space Danny glimpsed a swirl of motion, a furious snorting face, and a massive shape bigger than the car. Desperately he yanked open the passenger side door and fell out, then shot to his feet and raced blindly toward the trees. From behind him came the sound of rending metal and crunching glass. At the edge of the clearing he risked a glance over his shoulder. A bison was rampaging around the vehicle, the car door dangling from one of its horns.
Danny plunged into the trees, swallowing mosquitoes and inhaling black flies. Branches tore at his arms and punished his face, but he didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the highway. He waved down the first vehicle that came by, a half-ton transporting what looked like a yellow battering ram, its blunt head overhanging the roof of the cab. A plastic rock deflector bolted to the hood said, “Denendeh, eh?”
The truck eased to a stop beside Danny and the window rolled down. A man of indeterminate age noted without comment the torn shirt, the blood dribbling down Danny’s face from a dozen bites and scratches. He listened to Danny’s gasped-out story, then turned to the driver. “He wants a ride to Yellowknife, says a buffalo wrecked his car.”
The driver leaned forward for a look and said something in one of the Territory’s eight official languages.
“Okay,” said the guy on the passenger’s side, translating, “But you’ll have to ride in the back. Can’t have you bleeding all over the seats.”
“Thanks,” said Danny and clambered over the side. He felt a brief pang of guilt at abandoning his valiant vehicle, but the little car was probably a total write-off. He still couldn’t get over how big the bison was, like a bank vault on feet. What on earth had spurred it to such aggression?
He made himself comfortable among the crates in the back of the truck. Above him, supported by a steel frame, was the yellow battering ram, which he now saw was equipped with fins. The device’s color, far from being warm and buttery, was more like mustard or jaundice, or gold nuggets fresh from the ground with the dirt brushed off, dull and strong. Hardy.
The observation dislodged a memory and suddenly he realized why the name “Yellowknife” seemed so familiar. A book he’d read as a kid had taken place there. He couldn’t remember the title, but it was part of a series and others came rushing back. The Phantom Fish, The Door in the Closet, The Secret of the Lost Voyage. Such sweetly innocent books! Under their influence he’d carved a hidden compartment in the wall of his room, and tapped the phone line in his house by attaching earphones to a junction box in the basement. He’d carried a bicycle mirror in his pocket so he could look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He’d dusted for prints and memorized the licence plates of passing cars.
Eventually he outgrew the books, but not their influence. When high school ended, he was as eager as everyone else to escape the dreary confines of his home town, but where others headed off in search of good times or higher education, he wanted something different. Over the next few years he bounced from job to job, province to province, busing tables, picking apples, delivering pizzas. He sold magazines door to door, painted grain elevators, and raked asphalt till his skin cracked and bubbled in the summer sun. He donned a chicken suit and a sandwich board, and worked as a bum in a toilet factory testing new seat designs.
It seemed an aimless existence, but in fact he was trolling, not drifting. He was waiting for something to strike, though exactly what, he could not have said. A predicament, perhaps, or a sudden complication. Was that not how adventures began? Thus, when he was canned from a job for joyriding on a conveyor belt, and evicted from a boarding house for falling asleep while taking a shower, he regarded them not as setbacks but as opportunities. Adversity, he sensed, was a sort of hazard or frontier, the kind that could not be actively sought or courted. It had to arrive of its own accord, like love or a bolt of lightning, completely unexpected.
And sure enough, the very moment he found himself penniless and marooned in an area so remote it was not even a province, Yellowknife had materialized before him like a lost city. It was sitting at the end of the highway like a pot of gold. If he couldn’t find adventure there, and fortune too, he would not find them anywhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what fate had in store for him. A house on a cliff? A secret panel? An enigma or two? He didn’t see why not. He had a feeling anything would be possible in Yellowknife.
Presently the road shaped itself around the northern end of Great Slave Lake and crossed another border, this one unmarked. It was a new geological province, a land of shear zones and volcanic rock and rich mineral deposits. The trees turned feeble and spindly, and the road began to ramble, twisting itself around warty outcrops of rock, until at last it arrived at a large rent in the shoreline where 100 streets were scratched into primordial bedrock.
Yellowknife.
It was bracketed by a pair of mines, Con and Giant, their names reminiscent of a fable out of Aesop. A welcome sign stood next to a bulbous cargo plane that had crash-landed alongside the highway. Next came a shiny suburb of new homes, looking as if they were made of plastic, followed by a gypsy-like encampment of house trailers. The center of town was distinguished by a row of drab office towers that might have been airlifted in from some Eastern Bloc country. The roads sagged, trees were shorter than telephone poles, and gangs of ravens soared overhead like black-jacketed teens.
Danny detrucked at a traffic light and reached into his pocket for the business card he’d salvaged from the Border Café. A passerby pointed out the Carboniferous Building. A few minutes later he was inside the lobby, clutching the card like a lottery ticket and peering intently at the building’s directory, looking for Knave of Diamonds Expediting. He imagined himself walking in, tossing the card on a polished desk and declaring, “Here’s one idiot who wants to make some real money.” If the card’s owner wasn’t there, Danny would plant himself and wait. He’d come back every day. He’d bowl them over with his tenacity. They’d beg him to take a job.
A mousy woman with a backpack strode into the lobby. As she pushed the elevator button, she glanced at Danny and noticed his bloodstreaked face. “You okay?” she asked.
The smell of shampoo and freshly laundered denim wafted over him as he showed her the card. “You know where this place is? It’s not on the directory.”
She took one look and her friendliness vanished. “Sorry, pal. Place went belly up months ago.”
The elevator doors parted and she stepped inside, followed by a man with a briefcase. Danny let the card fall to the floor and jammed his hands in his pockets. He ambled down a long sloping hill where a bay sparkled in the sun. At the bottom, gathered around a huge loaf of rock, was an easygoing collection of shacks, docks, and dirt roads. Some of the places were wrecks, but most were tiny, neat and colorful, the sort of dwellings that hobbits, if they lived above ground, might build.
After a bit of searching he found an empty Skidoo crate in a vacant lot. “Arf arf,” he said, and crawled inside.