threw the rag on top of the can of polish and raced out the back door to the clang of the old metal triangle on the dock. Everyone knew if it rang at any time other than a meal they were supposed to return to the school.
By the time he got to the woodlot, his class was piling into the back of the truck. Father Gregory waved him aboard. When the truck arrived at the dock, Father John stood at the edge holding a wet, limp body.
Father Gregory jumped from the cab and took the sodden boy from him.
Three other boys, wrapped in blankets, sat in the bow of a small outboard boat with their heads down. Father John reached down to pull another boy from the boat, but the Indian fisherman stood in his way.
“Who’s in the boat?” someone whispered.
“It’s the boys from Dormitory C,” someone replied.
“I think Father Gregory has Tommy-Two,” someone else said.
“He doesn’t look so good,” someone whispered.
Everyone heard Father John shout at the fisherman as he waved his arms in the direction of the school. It was clear to those watching he wanted all boys out of the boat and back at the school, but the fisherman refused to hand over the other three. When Sister Theresa approached to plead with him, the Indian motioned her away as well.
“They must have capsized,” one of the boys hissed. “Good thing the guy in the boat was around. That water’s cold.”
The fisherman turned his back on the priest, gunned the motor, and swung the boat in the direction of the mainland, leaving behind a huge spray of white foam.
Father John screamed so loudly after the boys in the boat, his face went purple.
Father Gregory carried the unconscious boy up to the school. Father John followed.
At least the beatings will stop, Jonny thought, as he headed back to his work.
That night, everyone in Dormitory C lay in their beds listening to the sound of the wind. No one whispered about escaping, they just counted the days until the summer vacation.
Jonny’s thoughts drifted to the old man from the woods. He could still feel the touch of his warm, firm hand on his shoulder. He put his hand in the small hole on the underside of his pillow to check on the carved stone that he had given him. That guy was real, he told himself. Those nuns just didn’t want him around. No one wants Indians around.
A huge crack of thunder startled them all.
“The Old Man isn’t happy,” whispered one of the boys.
“Why did you say that?” Jonny asked, sitting upright.
“I don’t know,” the boy replied. “My father says it all the time when it thunders.”
“My Grandmother told me it was Thunderbird beating its wings,” someone added.
“The lightning flashes when it blinks its eyes,” a third voice whispered in the dark.
Jonny lay back down. He had no grandmother to tell him stories like this. A lump rose in his throat. He had no one to tell him anything. At times like this he wondered about his mother. Jonny closed his eyes and for a brief moment saw the smiling face of a young woman with blue eyes and honey-coloured hair. He wished he could remember more.
The rain slashed at the windows. The sound brought back some of the man’s words. “The water crept around the houses. The great poles trembled and groaned.”
Jonny watched the lightning flash across the sky and dance about the mountains. What houses and poles were the old man talking about? He remembered the man’s parting words. How can I ever find Golden Mountain?
3
New Kid
Sam’s swollen fingers could barely lift the spoon of brown beans into his mouth at breakfast the next morning. Jonny slathered a piece of bread with lard for him. With four places empty at their table, there should be more bread to eat, but there wasn’t.
Talk about the escape flew about the tables like a flock of birds. The kids whispered to each other in what the priests called their devil language.
“Lawman chako,” Sam said in a loud voice, hinting to the others that the nun in the room was close enough to overhear. They switched to English and discussed what they would do with their families on the summer vacation. There would be fishing expeditions, fires on the beach, and canoe races when they got together with their parents.
“You going to race?” one of the boys asked Sam. Then everyone suffered the silence of such a stupid question, remembering Sam’s hands. He would be lucky if he could hold a pencil, much less a paddle, by the end of the summer.
“No mahkook,” Sam said, in a low voice. “I’ve won all those races already.”
Everyone agreed it would finally give someone else a chance to win. The boys at his table poked each other and laughed as they discussed the moose, fish, and bannock they would all eat until they could eat no more.
Father Gregory entered the dining room. His straight blond hair, usually combed to perfection, looked unkempt. He had dark rings under his eyes as if he had spent a sleepless night. “First boat,” he said in an exasperated voice.
A rumble of excitement broke out.
Father Gregory held up his hand to lead them in a prayer for a safe journey.
No one spoke.
When finished, Father Gregory raised his hand a second time. “I need to make something perfectly clear. None of you,” he said in a even tone, “are to discuss the boys who escaped from Dorm C.”
His gaze travelled from one side of the room to the other. “You are dismissed,” he said with a loud sigh. “Have a good summer.”
Two years ago, Jonny had stopped going down to the wharf, tired of listening to other people’s excitement. The boys used the word Naha a million times a week, but it had no meaning for him. He had no mother who would run to him and hold him tight. No one would kiss him on the face over and over again because school was finished for the summer. His whole world for the past fourteen years had been this island.
Jonny picked up Sam’s plate and put it on top of his own. In a few hours he would be by himself. At least they let him eat in the kitchen over the summer. He could help himself to any of the leftovers from the priests’ dining room. Their breakfast plates always had bits of toast with jam, bacon, and egg.
Jonny walked up the wide oak staircase to the second floor. He pushed aside the thick velvet curtain, climbed onto the wide windowsill and curled his arms about his legs. Through the metal grid he watched the boys and girls walk in lines down to the wharf. The silence of the long summer had already begun to take over.
The wooden launches moved away, puffing and smoking. Four priests and three nuns in their long, black gowns stood watching. Father Gregory, new to the school this year, was the only one to wave goodbye. Of all the priests he was the friendliest. When the boys built fences, he helped mill the timber. He dug holes and nailed wire alongside
