Purgatory Ridge

After ten minutes on the trail, Cork knew they’d passed onto Iron Lake Reservation land, the far northwest corner where there was only one cabin for miles. The cabin belonged to Henry Meloux, the oldest man Cork had ever known, although years seemed a feeble measure of a man like Meloux. He was a mide, one of the midewiwin, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. To many of the whites in Tamarack County, he was known as Mad Mel. Cork, however, had respected the man his whole life.

As they neared Meloux’s cabin on the small, rocky peninsula along a north arm of Iron Lake, Cork sniffed the air with concern. The pervasive smell of distant fire had suddenly grown powerful and immediate. Cork broke from the pines into a clearing that gave him an unobstructed view of the cabin and the lake. Beyond the cabin, tattooed against the pale blue of the twilight sky, rose a dark coiling. A column of smoke.

“Come on, Stevie.”

Cork broke into a trot, holding himself back only for the sake of his son’s small legs. They ran past Meloux’s outhouse and cabin and followed a well-worn path between two tall outcroppings of rock. On the other side of the rocks, Cork halted so abruptly that Stevie ran right into him.

Henry Meloux looked up from where he sat on a maple stump tending a fire that blazed within a circle of large stones. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Cork standing suddenly before him, but when his gaze shifted to Stevie, he smiled as if the boy’s appearance were the greatest of unexpected pleasures. On the ground just to the left of Meloux lay an old yellow hound, its head resting on its paws. The dog didn’t move when the visitors arrived. His big brown eyes simply took them in with a blinking calm.

“Anin, Corcoran O’Connor,” Meloux said.

“Anin, Henry.” Cork moved around the fire nearer to Meloux. “You know there’s a ban on open fires, even on rez land.”

The old man stared at him as calmly as did the dog. “You are a born policeman, Corcoran O’Connor. Even when you are no longer paid for it, you tend to the law. If you want to arrest me, I won’t resist. If not, then how about you hand me that cedar branch there.” He nodded toward a pile of cut wood and branches nestled against the rock outcropping.

Cork handed Meloux the cedar branch. Stevie stayed near his father, shadowing Cork’s every move.

The old mide added the branch to the fire and followed the embers upward with his watchful eyes. “I see that you have brought with you a little Corcoran O’Connor.”

“This is Stephen. You probably saw him last when he was just about the size of a muskrat. Stevie, this is Henry Meloux.”

“Come, Stephen O’Connor. Sit with me.” Meloux patted the ground between him and the old hound.

Stevie looked up at Cork, who nodded his okay. The boy sat, and the hound lifted his head and nuzzled Stevie’s hand. His tail swept the dirt behind him.

“Can I pet him?” Stevie asked.

“I think he would like that.”

“What’s his name?”

“I have always called him Walleye.”

“Hi, Walleye,” Stevie said, stroking the dog’s yellow fur. “Hi, boy.”

Meloux watched the boy, and a broad smile added creases to his face as he spoke to Cork. “The blood of the People is strong in this one.”

From his shirt pocket, Cork took a pack of Lucky Strikes and handed them to the old man. Meloux accepted, opened the pack, and drew out a cigarette. He held the others toward Cork, who took one for himself. Meloux thrust the end of a stick into the fire and when it was burning, he held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He passed the stick to Cork, who did the same. For a few minutes, they smoked in silence. Stevie had been right. Cork had given up cigarettes. But the smoking now had nothing to do with an old habit.

“Why the illegal fire, Henry?” Cork finally asked. “It’s hot enough already I can fry burgers on the pavement.”

“Cedar fire,” Meloux pointed out. “There’s anger in the air.”

“And you think one cedar fire will clear it away?”

“Can it do any harm?”

“It could burn down what’s left of the forest.”

“I have been a tender of fires for nearly two of your lifetimes, Corcoran O’Connor. Fire and me, we are old allies. Stephen.” The old man leaned toward the boy. “Do you know your father has another name?”

“Liam,” Stevie replied, looking pleased that he knew the answer.

“His father and mother gave him that name. But I gave him another when he was no bigger than you.”

“What?”

“Ickode. It means fire. He tried to burn down his grandfather’s school on the reservation.”

“It was an accident, Henry,” Cork said.

“Do I have another name?” Stevie looked at the old man eagerly.

“If you were given one, it was not by me.”

Stevie’s eyes swung to his father.

“No, buddy,” Cork said. He could see the disappointment on his son’s face.

“Let me sleep on it,” Meloux offered. “Let me see what comes to me in dreams, Stephen. When next we meet, I will have a name for you.”

Stevie brightened and returned his attention to Walleye.