I DRAG MY COFFIN THROUGH THE LONESOME NORTH
by
Matthew Heiti
Bachelor of Fine Arts, Ryerson University, 2004
A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of
Master of Arts, English: Creative Writing
in the Graduate Academic Unit of Department of English
Supervisor: Len Falkenstein, BA, MA, PhD, English
Examining Board: Edith Snook, BA, MA, PhD, English, Chair John C. Ball, BA, MA, PhD, English Mark Anthony Jarman, BA, MFA, English Donald Wright, BA, MA, PhD, Political Science, University of New Brunswick
This thesis is accepted by the Dean of Graduate Studies
THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW BRUNSWICK
May, 2010
© Matthew Heiti, 2010 Library and Archives Bibliotheque et Canada Archives Canada
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"Words shall not be hid "Now some say he's doing nor spells be buried; the obituary mambo might shall not sink underground and some say he's hanging on the wall though the mighty go." perhaps this yarn's the only thing - Elias Lonnrot, The Kalevala that holds this man together some say he was never here at all." - Tom Waits, "Swordfishtrombone" ABSTRACT
A body, spackled with bullets, lying facedown on a desolate stretch of ice is turned
over revealing a grin or grimace so defiant that it would haunt the exhausted ring
of RCMP officers surrounding it to the end of their days. On December 31st, 1931,
the man who would become the infamous "Mad Trapper of Rat River" shot an
RCMP officer without provocation, igniting the Arctic Circle War, the largest
manhunt in the history of the North. It is this man's silent grin that seeps down
through more than three quarters of a century and still demands answers.
Inspired by the story of Albert Johnson and drawing on the aesthetics of the
Revisionist Western films of Sergio Leone, I Drag My Coffin Through the
Lonesome North is a play that probes the question of personal identity and asks
"Who are you? Who are you really?" An RCMP Constable, dogged by guilt,
pursues the Trapper into the heart of an insane landscape, any sense of self slowly flaking away to a final, violent confrontation. I Drag my Coffin Through the
Lonesome North is a dark odyssey about the destruction of identity and the cannibalistic force of myth.
ii DEDICATION
For Warren, who taught me how to play.
iii ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Albert's been renting a space in my brain for a few years now and I think I may
have finally evicted him. I came out here to Fredericton on a chase, and once it
began, I knew that regardless of the outcome, there would be no point in trying if I
didn't push myself to the very limits of my capabilities. These last two years have
been some of the darkest of my life, and here I am on the other side of something.
I would like to thank my graduate supervisor, Len Falkenstein. You gave me
space when I needed it, but did not fail to challenge me.
To John Ball - thank you for agreeing to read and for your attention to detail.
Without your kind support, I'm not sure I would have ended up in Fredericton at
all.
I would also like to thank the rest of my examining committee - Mark Jarman,
Donald Wright, and our chair, Edie Snook - for giving of their time.
Many thanks to Rebecca Geleyn for helping with the French translation, and for reminding me that some metaphors are not universal.
Finally, thank you to my fellow graduate students for easing the pain.
iv TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT ii
DEDICATION iii
ACKNOWLEDGMENT iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS v
1. MANUSCRIPT 1
2. AFTERWORD 73
3. BIBLIOGRAPHY 102
CURRICULUM VITAE
v I Drag My Coffin Through the Lonesome North By Matthew Heiti
"Then he was alone, and I was alone, and over us menaced the North." - Robert Service
Characters The Trapper The Constable MacBrien Eames Kullervo Blake Ishmael Sergeant Petitot
I (Darkness—then the twang of a jaw harp, a rhythmic pulse of notes, repeated twice, like an echo.
Lights rise, dim and casting shadows— A coffin. Long greying pine box, standing up, open andfacing out as if on display. The body of a man, the TRAPPER, is resting in the box—eyes closed, hands crossed stiffly over his chest. Drab clothing, pants tied with a cord, hang loosely on the emaciated body. The face is gaunt, stubbled, and the lips are curled back from the teeth in some kind of grimace or grin.
The yellow face of a radio winks on at the opposite side of the stage. The sound of a radio dial rolling through static, and then a voice, the easy personable tone of a broadcaster.
During this, lights rise on a second area, stronger— An overstuffed velvet armchair, facing away and pulled to edge of a hearth, the warm light of the fire flickering. A small table beside the chair—pen and paper on it. Above the fireplace, a rifle is mounted—a Savage .30-30—walnut stock gone dull, old and out of use. The radio, circa 1960s, is planted on the mantle.)
BROADCASTER. This being our last show, I thought we'd start with—what else?—a letter. This one goes to Red last seen leaving Fort McMurray for Port Radium almost twenty years ago, from your brother—"Red, I wonder if you're still out there? If you are, send me a picture, I'd like to see who you are now."
Think about it—who you are. Now. Red's brother is assuming that Red has changed in the past twenty years. Now does that make Red, Red, or someone
1 else? What's become of Red—or should I say, what has Red become? I don't know, I'm just asking.
(The chair has been angled such that it is impossible to tell if it is occupied or not. Finally, a hand extends holding a glass of whiskey and places it on the table. The hand picks up a pen and begins writing on a pad ofpaper. The movements are slow, weak.)
BROADCASTER. We've been on the air now for thirty-five years, folks, reading your letters to friends and relatives in the far North. Bringing a kind word to some lonesome soul off in the vast empty spaces. And it was on this same day, thirty- five years ago, that possibly the most infamous manhunt in the history of the RCMP came to a violent end on a river in the Yukon. Now we're talking forty- eight days and hundreds of miles in temperatures as cold as fifty degrees below zero—this so called Arctic Circle War was sparked by the murder of an RCMP officer and ended with the death of the pursued, a man whose identity has never been confirmed to this day.
Was he a Chicago gangster in exile? Maybe he was an ex-professional soldier, some soldier of fortune—I mean that would explain how he could do the things he did. Maybe he was some malevolent native spirit or just a man who turned his back on the world, saying 'I want no part of this.'
Who was he?
Why do we care? Why do we still ask, thirty-five years after his death, and why will we continue to ask thirty-five years further on? Do we want to know the man or do we want to own a piece of him—become him? Who was he really? Who? Who? Who?
(The repetition, caught like a record skipping, is cut off by static. The hand freezes in mid-motion. A single twang of the jaw harp comes through the static and then silence. The pen slips from the hand, and as it does, something small and glinting slides from the body in the coffin.
The pen clatters down and the glinting object—a bullet—hits the floor with a metallic PING! The hand spasms.
The light begins to strengthen on the coffin throughout. Another bullet slips from the body—PING! A figure leans forward in the chair, listening, body rigid.
Another bullet falls—PING! The figure turns to the light—the lined and agedface of the CONSTABLE.
Another bullet falls—PING! The chin on the body in the coffin drops, bringing the face level. The CONSTABLE lurches from his chair and staggers back toward the
2 fireplace, facing the darkness of the room and the coffin beyond. He is old and stooped, a blanket wrapping his body, leaving only the pale globe of his face. He glances from side to side, unable to locate the noise.
Another bullet falls—PING! The arms on the body flop down, limply, to the sides.
The CONSTABLE reaches up with one hand, clawing for and pulling down the rifle. He pulls the lever with a CLACK and brings it up to his shoulder—swinging back and forth in the darkness.
A bullet falls—PING!
The CONSTABLE swings the barrel to the noise and pulls the trigger—a dull CLICK and the TRAPPER's eyes pop open. A bullet falls—PING!
The CONSTABLE pulls the lever on the rifle again—CLACK. He steps toward the noise and presses the trigger—CLICK A bullet falls—PING! Pulls the lever— CLACK—steps and presses trigger—CLICK—A bullet—PING!
The CONSTABLE, clearly terrified, has drawn next to the coffin. Its presence is obvious, but he seems only vaguely aware of the shape of the thing—it doesn't quite exist for him. Hands shaking, he no longer works the lever but can only yank on the trigger over and over. With each twitch, another bullet falls—PING! PING! PING!
The TRAPPER's head lolls toward the CONSTABLE andfor the first time the two men seem to truly see each other. The CONSTABLE tries to step back, but the TRAPPER's arms snap up, grasping the barrel of the rifle, vice-like.
The CONSTABLE weakly pulls the trigger one last time. The TRAPPER slowly opens his mouth, the gleam of metal and spit, and a final bullet, the 13th, falls.
The TRAPPER reaches out with one hand and catches the bullet. He uses the other to wrench the rifle away from the CONSTABLE. With neither man able or willing to break the eye contact, the TRAPPER slides the bullet into the rifle, levering the shot—CLACK He raises and aims the rifle at the CONSTABLE, who covers his face with an arm, staggers back, falling to ground.
Just as the TRAPPER pulls the trigger, the lights on the coffin and the hearth area are extinguished. A pool of light remains on the CONSTABLE, on the floor, alone.
The twang of the jaw harp returns, a theme growing more insistent—this is "The Trapper's Theme."
3 The CONSTABLE stands shakily. The blanket slips from one shoulder—a flash of red. His stooped spine is slowly straightening, his breath slowing. The blanket falls to the ground.
The CONSTABLE stands—scarlet tunic, striped trousers—the unmistakable uniform of the Mounted Police. He stares out, the lines of worry fading, a kind of grim peace settling across his face—a young man.)
II (A bugle call—a long unbending note, a herald.
The CONSTABLE steps back and into the light of the office of SUPERINTENDENT MACBRIEN. A massive oak desk with meticulously ordered stacks ofpaper—behind glowers a large portrait of King George V. The diminutive Superintendent crouches over his desk, squinting through spectacles at a sheet of paper. A Stetson, the CONSTABLE's, is on the desktop.)
MACBRIEN. Johnson. Nice, full-blooded English name. I served with a Johnson in the war. "A" Squadron—fine officer, stood nice and tall in the saddle. Perhaps you're related? He was a Major—Major.. .something Johnson.
CONSTABLE. Jonnson.
MACBRIEN. What? Yon-son?
CONSTABLE. My father came over from Sweden, sir.
MACBRIEN. Sweden? (Looking at the man for the first time.) Yes, well, we all bleed red out here, right? Colour of the empire. (Back to paper.) You come highly regarded by the Depot—crack shot, I see—no question of morale, no mention of a history of.. .nerves.
CONSTABLE. No, sir.
MACBRIEN. I'll be frank, Johnson—this business in Estevan does not look good. Clear case of mob rule, I hear. Socialists got those poor miners all worked up, spreading lies. Hundreds marching on a handful of police trying to keep the peace. Men hurt, I understand?
CONSTABLE. Three dead, sir.
MACBRIEN. Three dead! Shot in the back by their own, no doubt—
CONSTABLE. Sir, that's not what—
4 MACBRIEN. —and for what—a few cents? Nasty business these unions— agitators. But I understand the Force acquitted itself admirably. A few good men standing against the mob—-just like the Spartans, right? (The CONSTABLE hesitates, and MACBRIEN's tone changes.) But your conduct, Johnson, I understand was something less than legendary. Your sergeant has recommended an immediate dismissal. During the Somme, we shot men for smaller acts of cowardice.
(MACBRIEN taps his pen, clearly expecting some response from the CONSTABLE, who shifts a little and clears his throat.)
MACBRIEN. However, the Force believes in second chances, especially considering some of the shortages in manpower. I'm putting you in for a transfer and I suggest you use this opportunity to iron out any...sympathies you may hold contrary to the King. You'll be assigned to Aklavik.
CONSTABLE. Aklavik?
MACBRIEN. Small settlement—fur traders—built on the Peel Channel up on the delta.
CONSTABLE. Sir?
MACBRIEN. The territories, son. (Beat. Points up.) North. They lost a constable there a few weeks ago—went to sleep out on patrol and his dogs ate him. We'll get you as far as Fort McMurray by rail, then you'll go by steamboat until you reach the Mackenzie—the river will start to be froze up from there. You ever mush before, Johnson?
CONSTABLE. Mush?
MACBRIEN. You'll meet up with a patrol at Fort Providence, they'll take you by dog sled the rest of the way. You'll report to Inspector Eames in Aklavik. If the weather holds you should make it in time for Christmas. (Beat.) You married, Johnson?
CONSTABLE. Engaged, sir.
MACBRIEN. What's the girl's name?
CONSTABLE. Alice May.
MACBRIEN. Alice—a good robust English name. You may want to postpone any ceremonies. Don't look so glum, Constable, it's not Siberia—do well, serve the King and we'll have you back in the streets cracking those socialist skulls, right? Dismissed.
5 (MACBR1EN goes back to his papers. The CONSTABLE takes the Stetson off the corner of the desk and turns to leave.)
MACBRIEN. Oh, and Constable, do buy yourself some long underwear. The North can be a cruel mistress.
(The light on the office fades and the CONSTABLE steps down into the solitary pool of light from before, pulling the Stetson into place.)
III (The high keen of a train whistle is followed by the chuffing of the engine—a rhythmic rocking sound causing the CONSTABLE's eyes to droop, then close.
As the train moves, for the first time the faint outline of a jagged mountain range can be seen at the rear of the stage. As we move further andfurther north into the wild, this range becomes ever more manifest.
The sound of voices, indistinct, but growing. A single voice rises above the rest.)
VOICE 1. We will not be treated like animals!
(Other shouts, cheers, voices overlapping.)
VOICES. Down with the company store! / We won't work for starvation wages! / We want houses, not slums! / We need clean water!
(Cheers continue. The sound of marching feet. A whistle and then a more militant voice cries out.)
VOICE 2. Stay back! Stay back!
(The noise descends into an angry cacophony—shouting, breaking glass, honking horns. Above all the rest—)
VOICE 2. Jonnson!
(Then—a gunshot.)
IV (The CONSTABLE'S eyes snap open and he steps into the light of INSPECTOR EAMES's office—nearly identical to the first office, only a catastrophic mess is splayed across the desk and the portrait of King George is smaller, less regal. EAMES, like his office, is in disarray and he is gnawing on a chicken leg. His tunic is open to a stained undershirt, his suspenders dangling so that he has to keep dragging his pants back up.)
6 EAMES. We run a fairly small operation up here. Headquarters are here in Aklavik and we've got other detachments scattered across the delta, wherever the Hudson traders are, really. Don't get too much trouble from the natives, occasional trapper goes bush crazy and shoots himself—we did have some pesky Eskimos kill a couple of priests a few years back, but otherwise it's pretty quiet. And cold. But I'm sure you noticed that on your way up. Trust you had an enjoyable trip?
CONSTABLE. It was...educational.
EAMES. Damn long is what it is.
CONSTABLE. Two thousand miles, I was told.
EAMES. Two thousand damn miles. Welcome to the true North.
(EAMES tosses the bone and wipes his greasy hand on his shirt—then pulls a whiskey bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer. He winks at the CONSTABLE and measures out some whiskey in each glass, giving considerably more to himself.)
EAMES. You'll find we're not quite as dry up here as back south. (They toast. EAMES gulps, pouring more, while the CONSTABLE sips.) Good to have you, son—I'm sure you'll fill in for Preston just fine.
CONSTABLE. Is it true that his dogs—?
EAMES. 'Fraid so, every morsel—even his moustache. Now listen, son, I want you to enjoy the festivities tonight, but it's straight back to the grindstone tomorrow. First thing, I'll need you to come with me down to the Rat River. Couple of Loucheux came in here last week bellyaching that some of their traps been sprung, hung on branches and they're blaming it on this trapper fellow—new to the area. Anyway you can't do that—tamper with traps—so we gotta go see him. Should be routine, back by New Year's. Hate to miss a party.
CONSTABLE. Anyone meet this trapper—get a name?
EAMES. Well, I think Kullervo bumped into him in the trading post in late summer, maybe he—
(The office door is kicked open with a crash and KULLERVO strides in. He is filthy, teeth rotten, wrapped in caribou fur and cap with a rifle strapped across his back. He is carrying a pair of blackened boots.)
EAMES. Oh—Kully, I was just talking about you.
7 (KULLERVO walks up to the desk and plunks down the boots.)
KULLERVO. Hauskaa Joulua.
EAMES. This is Special Constable Kullervo—he's one of the locals, helps us from time to time.
KULLERVO. You vant Lazarus, I pring him.
EAMES. These are boots, Kully.
KULLERVO. Poots is all dat's lef.
EAMES. What the hell does that mean?
KULLERVO. House gone, Lazarus gone, everyding gone put poots. Plew hisself up—poom. Stupit kullinlutkuttaja.
EAMES. Jesus.
KULLERVO. Joo.
EAMES. (To the CONSTABLE.) Lazarus was gonna guide us down the river. Must've got cabin fever or something. Maybe it was the holidays, they'll do that to a man. What was it—dynamite?
KULLERVO. Joo—poom.
EAMES. Damn waste. Well, what about Bernard—he still on the river?
KULLERVO. Ei—his vife find out about de udder voman and try to cut off his kyrpa (motioning to his crotch)—he run all vay to 'Laska.
EAMES. Damn. Maybe we can radio to MacPherson—see if they—
KULLERVO. I find de vay, I take you.
(KULLERVO walks to the door.)
EAMES. Oh—well, that's fine.
KULLERVO. Tvelve dollars day.
EAMES. Eight.
8 KULLERVO. Tvelve.
EAMES. Ten.
KULLERVO. Tvelve. Who else you get?
EAMES. Fine. (Beat.) You just going to leave poor Lazarus on my desk?
KULLERVO. (At the door.) Creesmas gift from Joulupukki. Maypee dey fit you.
(KULLER VO exits. The lights on the office fade.)
V (The sound of boisterous fiddle music, clapping and laughter—a Christmas party in full swing. Light rises on a wooden bench, the corner of a dining hall. The CONSTABLE is sitting on the bench, watching the reelingpartygoers from the fringes. KULLER VO staggers on, his robe gone—wearing only his trousers and bright-red long underwear. He has a paper crown on his head and carries a mug of beer in one hand. In the other hand he has a jouhikko—a Finnish lyre—and bow. He waves the instrument at someone out of sight.)
KULLERVO. (To a partygoer.) Don't vorry, I tance vid you next, Francie—holt you real tite. (To the CONSTABLE.) Hey, tikka, you lookin' so lonely I tot you might vant some glass of peer.
CONSTABLE. Oh, no—thanks, but I—
KULLERVO. Trink de peer or I make you tance vid me—and den all de vomen get chellous and kick your ass.
(KULLERVO forces the mug into the CONSTABLE'S hands and sits down on the bench. He plucks at the strings on the jouhikko.)
KULLERVO. Vat's your name, tikka?
CONSTABLE. Jonnson.
KULLERVO. Ah—Svenska! Varifran kommer du?
CONSTABLE. What? Oh, no, I don't speak—are you Swedish?
KULLERVO. Ei, paskianen, I'm not fucking ruotsalainen. Olen Suomalainen.
CONSTABLE. What?
KULLERVO. Suomi—Suomi! Finland! Vat is dis, your parents don't teets you?
9 CONSTABLE. My mother was Irish and my father wanted us to fit in, speak English.
KULLERVO. Dat's de vay—people not vant to pee who dey ver, or people not ready to pee anyding else. (Out to the party.) Hey! Leesa, don't vear yourself out—I tance vid you after I tance vid Francie and Petty!
CONSTABLE. Listen—the Inspector was saying that you'd met this trapper before.
KULLERVO. Joo, I see him at de Hudson Pay.
CONSTABLE. What can you tell me about him? What's he look like?
KULLERVO. Like you, put petter looking. Like me, put uglier. Jus a man.
CONSTABLE. You get a name?
KULLERVO. Ei. He don't talk, no look at me. Put I tell you one ding, he pought de pullets at de Hudson Pay.
CONSTABLE. Bullets? How much ammunition?
KULLERVO. All de pullets—everyding.
CONSTABLE. Why would someone need that much?
KULLERVO. (Shrugs.) Hunting?
(KULLERVO jumps to his feet and runs the bow across his instrument.)
KULLERVO. Leesa—Francie—Petty—Marie—I tance vid all of you!
(He stamps his feet and starts to work the bow across the strings. It is festive music, but coming out of the jouhikko it has a strange and ancient tone to it. As the lights and noise of the party fade out, only the jouhikko remains—its tune becomes a plodding march, "Kullervo's Theme. ")
VI (The barking of dogs. Early morning light rises on two toboggans—dog sleds— weighed down with bundled supplies. The CONSTABLE puts another large sack on top of one of the sleds and begins tying the load down.
EAMES enters, wearing a parka and carrying a similar one for the CONSTABLE.)
10 EAMES. Here—it's my old one. (The CONSTABLE hesitates.) Go on—you'll thank me when it's fifty below out. Only minus twenty right now—practically tropical.
CONSTABLE. I appreciate it.
(The CONSTABLE struggles into the parka.)
EAMES. We'd all have frozen or starved at some point up here if we didn't keep an eye out for each other. Being neighbourly comes real easy once you go through the ice and spend the night lying bare ass naked with another man just so's your toes or pecker don't fall off. (Beat.) Didn't see you doing much clapping or stomping last night.
CONSTABLE. Oh. Never been much one for the holidays. Wanted to be rested for the trip today.
EAMES. Well, guess your folks must've missed you back home.
CONSTABLE. No.
EAMES. Sure—a strapping young fella like you.
CONSTABLE. My parents are dead. (Beat.) Influenza.
(EAMES shakes his head and sighs.)
EAMES. My boy, too. Guess he'd almost be your age now.
(He pulls out a flask and offers it to the CONSTABLE, who declines, and then takes a slug himself.)
EAMES. Damn Spanish Flu. (Beat.) Got a sweetheart?
CONSTABLE. Uh, yeah.
EAMES. 'Course you do—and I bet she's a special one, this, uh...
CONSTABLE. Alice May.
EAMES. Alice May! Bet you miss her.
CONSTABLE. Yeah. We got our whole fixture mapped out.
EAMES. 'We'?
11 CONSTABLE. Well—she, I guess, but I mean, I'm okay with that. I'm not much good on my own.
EAMES. Bet she's got a nice, lusty figure.
CONSTABLE. What?
EAMES. (Yelling off.) Kullervo! Get your lazy Viking carcass out here! (To the CONSTABLE.) Think you'll be okay driving a team?
CONSTABLE. Reckon so. I learned a bit coming up from Edmonton.
EAMES. Good, that means I can catch a few on Kully's sled while you two mush. (Yelling off.) Kullervo—goddamnit! (To CONSTABLE.) Don't worry, Preston's dogs are some of the best—now that they've calmed down.
CONSTABLE. You mean these are—?
EAMES. Just make sure to feed them.. .before you turn in.
(KULLERVO limps in, extremely hung-over and dragging a whip.)
EAMES. 'Bout damn time.
KULLERVO. Veda vittu paahan ja pakene vuorille.
EAMES. I'm riding with you.
KULLERVO. Ei, you're too fat.
EAMES. Well, Jonnson's driving Preston's dogs and I ain't riding with them— they got a taste for human flesh.
(EAMES clambers up on KULLER VO's sled, squirming until he's comfortable.)
EAMES. All right, lads, we'll try to get as close to the mouth of the Rat today as we can, so tomorrow we can make it to this trapper's cabin in time for tea.
KULLERVO. You don't drink tea.
EAMES. Right—let's hope he has whiskey then.
KULLERVO. (To the dogs.) Muss! Muss!
(The light fades—the barking of the dogs becoming a solitary howl, a long lonely sound.)
12 VII (The light of the moon and the glow of a campfire. EAMES is at the fire's edge, wrapped in a fur blanket and reading a pulp magazine. Off—KULLER VO can be heard chopping wood and singing: repeating the first verse of Sibelius's "Jaakarimarssi, " "The Jager March. ")
KULLERVO. (Singing offstage.) Syva iskumme on, viha voittamaton, (Deep is our blow, our wrath meil' armoa ei, kotimaata. invincible, Koko onnemme kalpamme kaijessa we have no mercy, no homeland. on, Our whole happiness is at the tip of ei rintamme heltya saata. our swords, Sotahuutomme hurmaten maalle soi, our hearts may not give in. mi katkovi kahleitansa. Our war cry rings, enchanting the ei ennen uhmamme uupua voi, country, kuin vapaa on Suomen kansa. which is severing its chains. Our defiance may not tire, until the people of Finland are free.)
(During this, the CONSTABLE walks up and stands by the fire, holding his hands out for warmth.)
EAMES. Get those dogs staked and fed?
CONSTABLE. Mm-hm.
EAMES. (Holds up magazine.) "The Frozen Phantom Stalks the North"—my thirty-second time through.
CONSTABLE. Frozen what?
EAMES. Phantom. He's this Mountie who was raised by a Native shaman—so he's got these special powers, can talk to animals and such, and he carries a Buntline Special, like Wyatt Earp, with a sixteen inch barrel.
CONSTABLE. Isn't that—uh—a little—?
EAMES. Take this one for example—Jacques Le Loup's just pushed the Phantom off this cliff, a hundred feet down into a frozen river. Now Le Loup thinks he's got his goose, but what he doesn't know is the Phantom's wintered with a family of seals and can hold his breath longer than any man. But still, you'd think he'd have enough time to get the gold and get out of there, right?
CONSTABLE. Well—
13 EAMES. But no—because while Le Loup indulges in some wild, heathen celebration, the Phantom scales back up that cliff with his bare hands and raps that French lumbeijack with all sixteen inches of his Buntline. Then, with Le Loup in custody and the gold safely back to the Widow Clementine, he rides off with his signature line—"The lonesome North falls before the King!"
CONSTABLE. No disrespect, sir, but doesn't that make us—well—look a little silly?
EAMES. No, no—these're based on Sam Power, real officer of the Northwest Mounted—served out of Dawson during the Rush.
CONSTABLE. Really?
EAMES. Sure, you heard of him—always 'got his man.' I mean, yeah they're stretched a little, but it's the spirit of the thing, right? I'd rather read that than about some patrol farting around, talking to people about trapping violations. Besides, it beats reading the newspaper. They're already weeks old by the time we get them, if we get them at all. Kind of defeats the purpose of news. (Beat.) What's going on down in the cities? Still no work?
CONSTABLE. None. Those that do are mostly working for pennies. Dust storms on the prairies—whole farms buried under dirt, people with nowhere to go, nothing to eat—living on handouts. Politicians make a lot of speeches, but they can't seem to figure out what to do about the whole thing.
EAMES. Times is hard. But I'm sure King will work it out.
CONSTABLE. Sir.. .uh, Liberals been out since last year—Bennett's in.
(KULLERVO comes in, humming, and carrying an armload of wood.)
EAMES. Well, someone'll figure the damn thing out. None of it really means much up here—Nature is still Queen. Planes are starting to change that, though. Gold, silver, radium—they find all kinds of things to pull out of the ground. Hell, they hit oil just south of here last year. Within ten years the whole territory's gonna be overrun, wait and see. Won't be no problem finding work then.
KULLERVO. (Piling wood by the fire.) Come to Sudpury, no vork—dey say 'lossa vork out vest'. Go vest, no vork. So, come up here, dey say 'no vork up der', put I come here anyvay, now vork, vork, vork—noding put vork.
EAMES. Trading, trapping, hunting, prospecting—hell, even policing—
14 KULLERVO. Den you buy dings to get you troo de next vinter, and you got no money 'gain.
CONSTABLE. That why people come up here—to make money?
EAMES. Some. And some do get their poke and leave, but others stay—live off the land. Natives been doing it for... forever. It just gets in your blood—the North. I mean, I been up here fourteen years and every year I say this is the last, I can't swat one more mosquito or freeze my pecker another winter—but I imagine they'll cremate me on the marge of Lake Lebarge when all's said and done.
KULLERVO. Dis trapper ve go see—he sure got his poke and he stay anyvay.
EAMES. What the hell's that mean, Kully?
KULLERVO. At de Hudson Pay, he pay for all his supplies with pills—pig pills.
CONSTABLE. What's a pig pill?
KULLERVO. Pills—pills! Kusipaa!
EAMES. How much money did he have on him?
KULLERVO. He pay over t'ousand dollars, but he have pig pile—muts more pills dan dat.
EAMES. Goddamnit, Kully, why didn't you—?
KULLERVO. I forget. Trappers sometimes carry lossa money 'round.
CONSTABLE. What would he be doing wandering around the delta with thousands of dollars in his pocket?
EAMES. Well, trappers can make a lot of cash off a season's worth of pelts, but he didn't sell any at the post, right, Kully?
KULLERVO. Ei—pad year for peaver.
EAMES. Probably no big deal.
KULLERVO. I peen up here sis, seven vinter and I still eat shit. Dis guy, he jus show up vit t'ousands coming out his pockets.
EAMES. You and your goddamn money chatter all the time.
15 KULLERVO. You vork, you get someding—dis not pig dream here? I vork, vork and vork and I get noding and dis guy vaving his pills in my face. I sick of dis shit.
CONSTABLE. Maybe he's some rich tourist, like your pal who wrote that Frosty Phantom book, come up here to see the sights, research some material for his next story. Get away from it all.
KULLERVO. People don't get 'vay. You go someplace varm to get 'vay. People come here to go 'vay—for good. Dat whole finding yourself ding is hevonpaska—shit of horse. You come up here to forget yourself—to kill vat you know.
(Silence. EAMES pulls out his flask and takes a long pull. The dogs start barking in the background.)
EAMES. Well, all I know is long as he keeps on the side of the law, he can carry the Bank of Nova Scotia around with him for all I care. Every man drags some coffin after him—the past is his own damn business.
(The barking pitches up—becoming a more furious sound between two animals.)
EAMES. Goddamnit—Kully, go break 'em up.
KULLERVO. (Singing as he moves.) Syva iskumme on, viha voittamaton, meil' armoa ei, kotimaata.
(KULLERVO grabs his whip and strides off.)
EAMES. He always gets a little ornery this time of year. When he lost his money, his house, his wife left him. Spent a few winters off in the Barrens on his own— no trees, no people, no sunlight—nothing but the howling wind and the northern lights for company. Don't hold much to anything now.
(The sound of a whip cracking.)
KULLERVO. (Offstage.) Ole hiljaa! Olehiljaa!
(The thud of flesh. Dogs bark. More thuds and cracks. The CONSTABLE stands.)
CONSTABLE. What the hell's he—?
EAMES. Gotta keep the dogs in line.
16 CONSTABLE. He's beating them.
EAMES. Gotta be done. They take to discipline—without it they're just animals.
CONSTABLE. But—it's cruel.
EAMES. Listen, son, you let your dogs go soft—they'll turn on you in an instant, tear you apart. (Beat.) Preston was soft on his dogs.
(Dogs squealing and then subsiding to a pained whimpering. EAMES lies back, pulling the blanket tight around himself.)
EAMES. There—now we can all sleep easier.
(KULLERVO comes back, dragging his whip. He stands, just inside the fire's light, panting with exertion. The CONSTABLE watches, unsettled, as KULLER VO slowly coils the whip, humming "Jaakarimarssi." Lights fade.)
VIII (A bugle calls, followed by the faint sound of marching feet, growing. Dim light shows the three men sleeping by the fire. The sound again of shouting voices.)
VOICE 1. We will not be treated like animals!
(Other shouts, cheers, voices overlapping.)
VOICES. Down with the company store! / We won't work for starvation wages! / We want houses, not slums! / We want clean water!
(Cheers continue. A whistle is blown and then a more militant voice cries out.)
VOICE 2. Stay back! Stay back!
(The noise descends into an angry cacophony—shouting, breaking glass, honking horns. Above all the rest—)
VOICE 2. Jonnson!
(Then—a series of gunshots. The CONSTABLE sits up, his blanket slipping from him. Screams, cries of pain—the shouting descends into the agonized moaning of the injured and dying. The CONSTABLE slowly makes his way down to his pool of light. The militant voice speaks again, subdued but sinister.)
VOICE 2. Who are you? (Beat.) You think wearing that uniform is going to make you something, but you can't hide in there. Sooner or later they're going to find out you're just an imposter—a gutless coward who falls apart the minute he
17 has to make a choice. What are you going to do when they come and take it away? What will you have left? A useless naked body—a name? Look in the mirror—do you even know? Do you even know who you are anymore? Jonnson? Johnson? Jonnson? Johnson?
(These last words echo, blending together. Then—the twang of the jaw harp and a light winks on. Standing on a ridge, looking down at the CONSTABLE is the TRAPPER, the jaw harp clenched in his teeth. He plays "The Trapper's Theme" as the dark slowly overwhelms him again.)
IX (The CONSTABLE walks into the light below a riverbank—the two sleds lined up end-to-end on the ice, creating a barrier. He comes to crouch next to EAMES, behind the sleds. EAMES is staring at something through a pair of field glasses.)
EAMES. He's at the door. He better not blow this—don't wanna miss out on a chance for a warm fire and a meal before heading back.
CONSTABLE. What's it mean when someone hangs a trap on a branch?
EAMES. Eh? Oh, it's an insult, or a challenge—pissing on someone else's territory.
CONSTABLE. Why's that our business?
EAMES. There's only a handful of us up here and a million miles of bush to cover. We're customs men, game wardens, land agents, postmasters—hell, I even married a couple of nice young Dogribs last month. Everything's our business. (Spotting something.) He's coming back—why's the bastard coming back?
CONSTABLE. Maybe there's no one home.
EAMES. There's smoke. (Pulls out his flask.) Doesn't figure—usually these trappers are so lonely, they'll practically yank your arm off to get you inside, stuff you full of food. (Tips the flask—empty.) Goddamnit, I'm bone dry here. (Loudly.) Kully—get back there and bang louder.
KULLERVO. (Offstage.) En—en! I no go pack der!
EAMES. Is he in there or not?
(KULLER VO hurries down the riverbank.)
KULLERVO. I knock, I say—'Har-Cee-Em-Pee. Ve gonna talk 'pout some traps,' 1 leesen—noding. He don't say—put I see him.
18 EAMES. Where?
KULLVERO. Troo de vindow—vatching me. Put ven he knows I see him, he pulls de curtain.
EAMES. You sure it was him?
KULLERVO. Joo. Same eyes. Liddle plack pits.
EAMES. Goddamnit. (Pause.) This just doesn't figure. Even if he did mess with those traps—it's not like it's a criminal offence.
CONSTABLE. See the way he's got that cabin built right on that promontory, so it's facing the river on three sides. You can only come at it from the front.
EAMES. Like a fort.
CONSTABLE. He's hiding something.
EAMES. Hiding something or not, night's coming, the temperature's dropping and I don't feel like mushing all the way back to Aklavik to write out a search warrant, so I can drag my ass back here again. (Beat. Stands.) I'm gonna go talk to him.
KULLERVO. Leaf dis guy 'lone.
EAMES. He probably couldn't understand what the hell you were saying.
KULLERVO. Leaf him'lone. He's not right.
EAMES. What d'you mean—think he's gone bush?
KULLERVO. Hisii. Ve go now. Han on hisii.
EAMES. Kully, save your druid bullshit for the sauna.
(EAMES starts to clamber up the bank.)
CONSTABLE. Maybe I should go with you.
EAMES. I'm just going to explain the situation to him. See if I can get some more whiskey for the trip back.
(EAMES disappears from sight. KULLER VO and the CONSTABLE both watch after him, frozen in some kind of unspoken anticipation.)
19 CONSTABLE. You think he—
KULLERVO. Ole hiljaa.
CONSTABLE. What?
KULLERVO. Leesen.
(Silence.)
CONSTABLE. I don't hear—
KULLERVO. De vind no plow here. (Beat.) Dis is pad place.
(The sound of EAMES knocking at the cabin door, far off.)
EAMES. (Distant.) Hello in there! This is Inspector Eames of the RCMP, we know you're in there—we just want to have a chat. (Beat. Louder knocking.) C'mon now, this is goddamn silly, if you don't open this—
(The blast of a rifle—jolting both men. For an instant they are paralyzed, and then KULLERVO springs to the sled, grabbing his rifle andfiring a series of shots at the cabin. The dogs start into a frenzy of barking.)
KULLERVO. Voikyrpa—voikyrpa! 'Spector—holt on, I coming!
(KULLER VO fires again and then thrusts the rifle at the CONSTABLE, who is still frozen in shock.)
KULLERVO. You shoot, keep shooting.
(KULLER VO races up the bank. The CONSTABLE snaps out of his daze—he raises the rifle and aims.)
KULLERVO. (Offstage.) Shoot! Shoot!
(The CONSTABLE tries to pull the trigger, wills himself—but is overcome by tremors that shake his whole body, causing him to drop the rifle.
KULLERVO appears—he has tied EAMES's bootlaces together and is dragging him down the riverbank. EAMES's chest is a mess of blood. KULLER VO pulls the body behind the cover of the sleds. He grabs the rifle and turns on the CONSTABLE—ramming him with the butt of the gun.)
KULLERVO. Haista vittu!
20 CONSTABLE. I'm sorry—I couldn't—I'm sorry!
KULLERVO. Vittujen kevat ja kyrpien takatalvi.
(KULLERVO aims the rifle at the cabin—scanning for any movement. The CONSTABLE looks down in shock at the body of the Inspector. Throughout, the light has continued to dim with the creeping night. The barking of the dogs has subsided.)
CONSTABLE. Is he—?
KULLERVO. Joo.
CONSTABLE. Christ. (Pause.) Let's get out of here. (Beat.) Kullervo? Let's get the hell out here.
KULLERVO. Ei— ve stay, maypee I shoot dis sonna-na-pits.
CONSTABLE. Look—we should go. He's in there, you can't get—
(KULLER VO grabs the front of the CONSTABLE's parka.)
KULLERVO. Look up, you stupit tikka. No stars—all clouts! (Hepushes the CONSTABLE away, sending him sprawling across EAMES.) How you gonna find de vay pack in dat?
CONSTABLE. What do we do then?
KULLERVO. Ve stay. In morning ve see trail.
(The CONSTABLE stands and starts to move back into the woods.)
KULLERVO. Vere you going?
CONSTABLE. To get some wood so we—
KULLERVO. Ei—no fire.
CONSTABLE. We'll freeze.
KULLERVO. He see fire— (makes the sound of a gunshot.)
(The CONSTABLE sits down again. He stares at the dead body for a moment and then grabs EAMES by the feet, starts to drag him off to the side.)
KULLERVO. Mitavittua!
21 CONSTABLE. I'm just moving him over there—it's creepy.
KULLERVO. You vant de volves to eat him?
CONSTABLE. No, I—
KULLERVO. Leafhim!
(The CONSTABLE drops the feet, then sits with his back to the sled. KULLERVO continues to sight down the barrel of his rifle.
The CONSTABLE notices something has fallen out of EAMES's parka—his magazine. The CONSTABLE picks it up, turns it over in his hands.
The silence is broken by a distant twang—the jaw harp—and slowly "The Trapper's Theme "forms. The CONSTABLE turns and both men stare off at the cabin, listening to the music pouring out of it into the night.)
X (Early morning—same setting. The shape of a man is cocooned in a large fur sleeping bag next to the sleds. KULLER VO strides on, his rifle slung across his back. He goes to one of the packs tied to the sled, reaches in and pulls out a hunk ofjerky. He tears a piece off with his teeth, and then kicks the sleeping bag—the CONSTABLE explodes out of it, gasping for air. KULLER VO tosses the CONSTABLE the rest of the jerky.)
KULLERVO. Dogs is ready. Ve go now.
CONSTABLE. What time is it?
KULLERVO. I go down, I check cabin. Empty. He leaf in de night. Find this. (He tosses a bullet casing to the CONSTABLE.) He's using a Savage model 99, .30-30 caliper. Good gun. Qvick. He only shoot vonce.
CONSTABLE. Anything else inside?
KULLERVO. Ei.
CONSTABLE. Nothing? Not even a scrap of paper—anything to tell us who this guy is?
KULLERVO. Ei. I look for dat money, put he take it too.
CONSTABLE. Why did he shoot?
22 KULLERVO. Eat your preakfas'.
(KULLERVO goes to secure the packs on the sled. The CONSTABLE tests the edge of the jerky, finds it too tough.)
CONSTABLE. He just went to talk, he didn't even have his gun out—why would he shoot him?
KULLERVO. To kill—dat's vhy you shoot.
CONSTABLE. But why would he want to kill Inspector Eames? (Beat. Looks around.) Where is he? Where's his body?
KULLERVO. (Gesturing behind.) I put him up in tree so bear and volf no get him.
CONSTABLE. But—we need to take him back to Aklavik.
KULLERVO. Ve no go Aklavik.
CONSTABLE. We have to put out a report, get a posse together—we need supplies.
KULLERVO. Dis trapper—he leaf tracks. He use snowshoes, ve catch him fast.
CONSTABLE. That's not procedure—we've lost an officer, we need—
KULLERVO. You vant dis trapper to get 'vay?
CONSTABLE. No, it's just—
KULLERVO. Tracks go northvest. Plake's Post northvest. Ve follow tracks, get to Plake's Post. Ve talk on radio der—tell Aklavik vat happen, vait for udder men der.
(Silence.)
CONSTABLE. We can't just leave him in a goddamn tree.
KULLERVO. Ve moof faster vitout him. He not going anyvere.
CONSTABLE. Well—shouldn't we at least say something?
KULLERVO. Do vat you vant—jus hurry.
CONSTABLE. Which tree is it?
23 (KULLER VO points. The CONSTABLE hesitates then speaks loudly.)
CONSTABLE. Inspector Eames, I'd like to.. .you were— (To KULLERVO.) I don't even know his full name. Look—can you just say something?
KULLERVO. Mita vittua. (He faces the tree, pulls off his fur cap.) 'Spector Alexander Eames. I sorry you die. You owe me tirty dollars you never pay and now I never get. Hasshole.
(KULLER VO spits, pulls his cap back on and stands behind his sled. He leans in and begins to push.)
KULLERVO. Muss!
(The barking of dogs. Lights fade on the riverbank.)
XI (KULLER VO and the CONSTABLE step into the warm confines of a trading post. A long counter is piled with supplies and hand-printed sale signs—bundles of traps dangle from the ceiling like jagged mobiles.
BLAKE pops into view from behind the counter and slams a large ledger down— flipping through it. The trader is a large, boisterous man in a wool cardigan. He stops on a particular page.)
BLAKE. Yep—I was right. This one, he been in here twice, once at the ass end of summer for all the usual victuals—food, bullets—seven hunnerd dollars worth. And then I don't see no hide nor hair of him 'til he come scratching at my window last night.
CONSTABLE. What'd he buy?
(KULLERVO pulls out a gold pocket-watch and places it on the counter. BLAKES picks it up and scrutinizes it as he speaks.)
BLAKE. He got hisself a real nice Iver Johnson 16-gauge and he cleaned me out of shotgun shells, also got some ammo for his .30-30. Oh—and he took eight boxes of Beecham's kidney pills.
CONSTABLE. Beecham's?
BLAKE. Keep you reg'lar. (To KULLERVO.) Give you twenty for it.
KULLERVO. Tventy-fife.
24 BLAKE. Twenty and two.
KULLERVO. Fife.
(BLAKE slaps the bills down on the counter and slips the watch out of sight.)
CONSTABLE. He didn't leave a name?
BLAKE. He don't say much of anything—-just points at what he wants.
CONSTABLE. That your usual practice, Mr. Blake, selling guns and ammunition to some stranger in the middle of the night?
BLAKE. I told you—he been here once before, he weren't no stranger. Constable, up here a man's name is part of his past, what he's moving away from—it's his own business and weren't no cause of mine to be asking after it. (Beat.) 'Sides, he's a fine customer—paid both times with cash on the barrel. I 'member 'cause he had so many gol'darn bills spilling out of him.
KULLERVO. Dat'shim.
CONSTABLE. Can I use your radio?
BLAKE. Oh, sure—get purty good reception up here. You heard about this Statue of West.. .minstrel—or minster or something?
CONSTABLE. Statue.. .you mean a Statute?
BLAKE. Yeah, they was on the radio there the other night talkin' about how they passed this bill, gives us the right to make our own laws.
CONSTABLE. Who—gives who the right?
BLAKE. Us—Canada! Yeah, this Statue's just the beginning—pretty soon we'll be standing on our own two feet and we're really gonna be something. What d'you think of that?
(KULLERVO pulls EAMES's flask out of his pocket and lays it on the counter.)
KULLERVO. Vat you gonna pee?
BLAKE. Eh?
KULLERVO. You haf all dis freedom now—vat sorta ding you gonna pee?
25 BLAKE. Uh—I dunno, pardner, but I'm sure it'll be something. Bright times ahead, eh, boys? (Looks at the flask.) Five—not a penny more.
KULLERVO. Sis.
(BLAKE slaps the money down and drags the flask out of sight.)
BLAKE. You crazy Swede.
KULLERVO. Suomalainen, you molopaa.
CONSTABLE. Mr. Blake, if you don't mind I really need to use that radio.
BLAKE. What're you listening for?
CONSTABLE. No, I need to make contact with our base in Aklavik.
BLAKE. Oh—all's I do is listen in, I ain't got no transmitter.
(The CONSTABLE glares at KULLER VO, who shrugs.)
BLAKE. What d'you want this guy for anyhow?
CONSTABLE. We can't say really—
KULLERVO. He kill Eames.
BLAKE. The Inspector?
CONSTABLE. Damnit, Kullervo.
KULLERVO. Is good for him to know. He tell de udder trappers to vatch out.
BLAKE. Well, shit...I liked the Inspector.
CONSTABLE. We need to be getting back to Aklavik, but thanks for—
KULLERVO. Ve stay on trail.
CONSTABLE. You told me we'd radio from here and now we can't, so what we need—
KULLERVO. Ve close. Vun day, maypee two and ve—
CONSTABLE. Look—I've got rank here and I'm saying we—
26 KULLERVO. Leesen, tikka—pig vind on de vay. Vit pig vind come pig snow. Ve go to Aklavik, dem tracks gone.
CONSTABLE. We're going to have to take that risk.
KULLERVO. I get dis guy.
CONSTABLE. We're going back.
KULLERVO. Ei!
(KULLER VO slams his hand down on the counter. He and the CONSTABLE stare each other down. BLAKE clears his throat nervously.)
BLAKE. He's right, Constable. Storm's a-coming any day now and it'll wipe out that trail in a hurry. I can get one of the McGrew brothers to do a run up to Aklavik for you—get the word out. It'll take a few days for them to get a posse up, but with your two teams breaking trail, they should be able to catch up.
(The CONSTABLE sighs and hangs his head. He reaches into his jacket and puts an envelope on the counter.)
CONSTABLE. Can you see that this gets to Regina—it's for my fiancee.
BLAKE. 'Course, but—
CONSTABLE. We're going to need some supplies—food. And give me one of those packs of Beecham pills.
BLAKE. In a jiffy, Constable. (Places a box of pills down on the counter, and heads toward back room—stops.) I didn't wanna go spreadin' nothin', but with the Inspector dead and all, well...when this fella come in the summer, one of the Kutchin hanging around thought he might be the brother of Berk Johnson—on account of Berk had been waiting all summer for him to show up. But Berk was gone by then so we never found if this fella was him or not. This Johnson brother was s'posed to be from Manitoba or thereabouts.
CONSTABLE. He answer to Johnson?
BLAKE. Didn't ask. Heard maybe he was on the run or something.
CONSTABLE. From the law?
BLAKE. S'pose so. Like I said, didn't wanna be spreadin'no gossip on a man, but in light of the situation, thought it might as well be said.
27 CONSTABLE. 'Predate it. We'll bring him in and get the whole story.
BLAKE. Reckon you will—him on foot and mighty weighed down. Got a pack on him would topple a reg'lar man—two, three hunnerd pound easy—but he didn't seem bothered none by it.
(BLAKE moves into the back room. The CONSTABLE opens the box of kidney pills and pops one in his mouth—swallows. KULLER VO laughs dryly.)
KULLERVO. Yohnson.. .dat's your name, too.
(Lights fade on the trading post.)
XII (A bugle call—this time the note wavering in anticipation, the eerie feeling of an approach.
The mountain range in the background continues to emerge—the initial dark blue of the sky above slowly lightening. These mountains seem to hang above the travelers.
Lights rise on a snowy trail along the river. Dogs barking. KULLER VO enters, pushing his sled.)
KULLERVO. Vo! Vo!
(His sled eases to a stop, and he walks ahead, checking the ground. As the CONSTABLE'S sled arrives, KULLERVO holds his hand up to signal him to stop.)
CONSTABLE. Whoa!
(The CONSTABLE halts his sled. KULLERVO walks in a crouch, following the trail ahead. The barking continues, but more subdued.)
CONSTABLE. How far have we gone?
KULLERVO. 'Pout fifty miles.
CONSTABLE. Shouldn't we have caught up to him by now?
KULLERVO. He moof very fas' for guy on snowshoes.
(KULLER VO reaches out and runs his hand along one of the tracks. Then lies flat and looks from a different angle.)
KULLERVO. Paska!
28 CONSTABLE. What?
(He gets up and walks to his sleds—starts pulling supplies off.)
KULLERVO. Dis Yohnson guy pretty sneaky. Look at dat print der.
CONSTABLE. What about it?
KULLERVO. See de vay it deeper in front? He got snowshoes on packvards. He going dat vay (pointing behind them) and he making me dink he going dat vay (pointing in front). Kullinlutkuttaja. Ve camp here.
CONSTABLE. Shouldn't we keep moving?
KULLERVO. Dogs need res'—food.
CONSTABLE. If that storm comes up and—
KULLERVO. Storm need res' too—no come yet.
CONSTABLE. We must be getting close.
KULLERVO. He know 'sactly vere ve are.
CONSTABLE. What d'you mean?
KULLERVO. (Pointing at tracks again.) Dese tracks—he use dis to get pehind us, climb pig hill so he can vatch.
(Silence. The CONSTABLE turns and looks off into the hills.)
CONSTABLE. You—you think he's watching us right now?
KULLERVO. I hear story 'pout guy like dis. Joo—coupla years pack ven I vas trapping de Nahanni. Dey vas finding all dese tracks—moving in circles, sig-sags, feets on packvards—and dey alvays hearing strange music at night. And den dese bodies start being found vitout dere heads.
CONSTABLE. Without their...?
KULLERVO. (Makes throat-cutting motion.) Chop, like vit haxe. Knew a coupla dose guys—good guys. Anyvay so now dey call dat place Headless Valley.
CONSTABLE. They ever find the heads?
29 KULLERVO. I go stake dogs.
(KULLER VO grabs his whip off the sled, and then walks into the growing darkness. Lights fade.)
XIII (Night—same setting. The sleds have been drawn around a campfire, a pot of tea brewing over the flame. The CONSTABLE leans against one of the sleds, reading the Inspector's magazine. The crack of a whip—the CONSTABLE winces—the squeal of a dog.
KULLERVO comes on, chuckling to himself. He hangs his whip on the sled.)
KULLERVO. Sonna-na-pits try to pite me.
(He grabs a cup from near the fire, uses a sleeve to grab the pot and pour tea.)
CONSTABLE. I wish you wouldn't beat those dogs.
KULLERVO. Poo-hoo.
CONSTABLE. No, I'm serious—you have to be so cruel?
KULLERVO. Dese dogs is vorkers, not friends.
CONSTABLE. You seem to enjoy it.
KULLERVO. Ei—I teets dem. Dis de only kin'a teetsing dey know. (Beat.) Vat you read dere?
CONSTABLE. Nothing—it's just the Inspector's.
KULLERVO. Lemme see dis.
(KULLERVO grabs the magazine and flips through it.)
KULLERVO. De "Frozen Phandum." Look at dis pig hero of de North. He alvays get his man, joo? Some story—make pelief, joo?
CONSTABLE. Well, on the back there—see?—it says it's based on fact.
KULLERVO. Sam Power of the Northvest Mounted.. .pig hero, ei?
CONSTABLE. Like I said—'based.'
30 (The CONSTABLE tries to take the magazine back, but KULLERVO snatches it away.)
KULLERVO. You know vat happen to dis Sam Power? He fall in reever.
COCONSTABLE. Yeah—that's in that—
KULLERVO. And drown. Pig hero's pig gun drag him down, down, down to bottom of reever. Drowned. Now he really frozen phantom phandum. Dat's troo story. (He tosses the magazine back.) So you no peat dogs, you pig hero—go soft jus' like 'Spector Eames, sitting pehind his desk reading stories, getting fat and slow—pig hero.
CONSTABLE. C'mon, it's just a magazine—it's supposed to be fun.
KULLERVO. You dink Sam Power vants to be 'membered like dis? Dere's no heros, tikka. Up here, every man's ione. You vant someding, you take. You vant dogs to leesen—you hit.
CONSTABLE. That's not a way to live.
KULLERVO. Joo. Dat's de vay it is.
CONSTABLE. But what d'you have left then? Something soulless.
KULLERVO. Dis de vay! In Suomi—in Finland ve fight our own people and ve lose. Ve peaten down. I have farm taken 'vay, put in camp—dey say you no pelief vat you pelief no more. My family—dey get some tuperculosis in camp, dey die. I come to Canada, dey say you free in Canada, ve vant you here, and is good for vile, but den de vork is gone and de vork you do find is not safe—is not good. So I say dis is vat I pelief, and dey say dat makes you dis kin'a person and ve don't vant dat kin'a person here. Ve peaten down again. (Beat.) Dis de vay. Dis vat I know, dis vat I teets.
(Silence.)
CONSTABLE. Kullervo. (Beat.) You ever kill a man?
(KULLERVO turns and looks at the CONSTABLE silently, then tosses the magazine to him. He pulls his whip from the sled and works on the leather. The CONSTABLE rubs his hands together, blows into them.)
CONSTABLE. Sure is damn cold. (Beat.) They told us it was cold up here but I never thought it would be this damn cold. Is it this cold all the time?
31 KULLERVO. Everypody pack south dinks is cold here alvays. Is shit of horse— summer damn hot too. Vinter jus' petter ven dere's no mosquito and plackfly.
CONSTABLE. Well, it's cold now.
KULLERVO. Vhy you here, tikka?
CONSTABLE. What? I was assigned here.
KULLERVO. You ask to pee here?
CONSTABLE. No.
KULLERVO. Vhy you here?
CONSTABLE. I dunno. I made a mistake—I didn't make a mistake, dunno what I did. We take an oath to 'uphold the right'—Maintiens le Droit—and they make it sound so simple. Right, wrong—black, white. But I dunno what those things mean. What happens when you come to something hazy, a shade of grey y'know, and someone says 'that's black' but you know it's not. It's not black. How do you make that make sense?
KULLERVO. Tikka, dis guy ve chasing—he shoot'Spector Eames. Dis make him wrong, right?
CONSTABLE. Sure.
KULLERVO. Den vat's de problem? He's wrong, ve're right.
CONSTABLE. I guess. But that's not really what I—
KULLERVO. You got a voman?
CONSTABLE. A woman? Yeah. Alice May—back in Regina. We're engaged.
KULLERVO. She good voman dis Aleese May?
CONSTABLE. Of course. Until we met, I was.. .1 don't know what I was, but she helped me.. .find myself. We were writing every few days until my transfer, but this's been a bit of blow for her.
KULLERVO. Mitt?
CONSTABLE. Well—she's the daughter of a cabinet minister so she's used to a.. .certain kind of life and this whole business has kind of put a dent in our prospects—my prospects—for advancement.
32 KULLERVO. You ever hit dis voman?
CONSTABLE. (Standing.) What—that's just—go to hell.
KULLERVO. Maypee dis voman, she find somevun closer, somevun varmer.
CONSTABLE. Don't wanna talk about—
KULLERVO. All I say—you vant dis voman, you vant to keep dis voman, love dis voman—you need to peat dis voman.
CONSTABLE. Shut up, Kullervo.
KULLERVO. Voman like dog.
CONSTABLE. Shut up, goddamnit!
(The CONSTABLE shoves KULLERVO into one of the sleds, sending the load crashing to the ground. The dogs start to bark in the background.)
KULLERVO. Vhy? Is no different den vat you do to dis land, dese people. Is no different den vat you do to each udder. Same here, same everyvere. Peat, peat, peat dem down. Ven I marry dis vat I do to my voman. Dat's the vay you keep dogs and vomen—you keep dem down.
CONSTABLE. Yeah? Maybe that's why she left you.
(KULLERVO uncoils his whip, as if he might strike the CONSTABLE—both men stare each other down. The barking of the dogs pitches up to a chorus offrantic howling. KULLERVO's expression changes to shock.)
KULLERVO. Paska!
(KULLERVO runs off toward the dogs.)
CONSTABLE. What? What is it?
KULLERVO. (Offstage.) Stop!
(KULLER VO dashes back on stage and grabs his rifle.)
KULLERVO. Hullu koira! Hullukoira! Mad dog!
(KULLERVO runs off again, followed by the CONSTABLE. The lights fade. A gunshot sets off the sound of a bow running across the strings of the jouhikko.)
33 XIV (Same setting—dawn. KULLERVO and the CONSTABLE sitting on the sleds— both men spattered with blood, exhausted.)
CONSTABLE. We should head back. (Beat.) I mean—what the hell was that? We need to head back.
KULLERVO. Ei.
CONSTABLE. What do you mean? We gonna walk the rest of the way? This Johnson guy was outrunning us before, but now—we don't have a chance in hell of catching him.
KULLERVO. I catch him.
CONSTABLE. How?
KULLERVO. I catch him.
(KULLER VO pulls a backpack off his sled and begins stuffing supplies in it.)
CONSTABLE. How? Our dogs are dead—you fiickin' killed them!
KULLERVO. They vas mad dogs!
CONSTABLE. I know—I mean that husky would've torn my throat out, but— why? What happened to them?
KULLERVO. I don't know. Sometimes is happen—dog gets spook.
CONSTABLE. But all of them? They would've killed each other—us. I mean have you ever seen that before? (Beat.) You drove them to this, didn't you?
KULLERVO. Ei.
CONSTABLE. You beat them and they went crazy—that's what it was.
(KULLER VO throws his pack down and gets right in the CONSTABLE's face.)
KULLERVO. It's dis guy ve follow. He make dogs mad!
CONSTABLE. What—how would he do that?
KULLERVO. I tell 'Spector Eames, I say leaf him alone.
34 CONSTABLE. What does that mean?
KULLERVO. Dis guy—he not jus' some trapper.
CONSTABLE. What are you saying—that's he some kind of—?
KULLERVO. Ei—ei, dogs jus' go crazy, I don't know.
CONSTABLE. Fine. We're going back—try to join up with the posse.
KULLERVO. I catch dis guy.
CONSTABLE. Why? Because he shot the Inspector? I mean, we—
KULLERVO. I don't care 'pout de 'Spector.
CONSTABLE. Then why? You've been pushing us from the beginning and I want to know why.
KULLERVO. He preak de law.
CONSTABLE. That's not it—there's something else. (KULLERVO is silent.) I'm ordering you to guide me back.
KULLERVO. (Laughing.) Order me?
CONSTABLE. I'll put cuffs on you if I have to, goddamnit!
(This propels KULLER VO into a more extreme fit of laughter. The CONSTABLE grabs his parka in frustration.)
CONSTABLE. I've had enough of your bull—
(KULLERVO's laughter cuts short. He slugs the CONSTABLE, sending him sprawling in the snow. KULLER VO stands over him for a moment and then returns to his pack.)
KULLERVO. I don't care 'pout your right and wrong. I don't care 'pout no revenge. Dis guy, vhy he running? I tell you, he got money. Lotta money. You come vit me, or you find your own damn vay pack. I don't care. I tired of peing peaten—dis money is mine. Mine.
(The lights fade as the jouhikko plays the plodding notes of "Kullervo's Theme. ")
35 XV (KULLER VO leads the CONSTABLE down a snowy trail, both men bent with heavy backpacks and wearing snowshoes. The jouhikko continues, underscoring their movements and driving them forward on this agonizing march—a walk that never seems to gain any ground.
Slowly, the CONSTABLE's burden seems to weigh more and more upon him.
Finally, KULLER VO stops, and with him the music jolts to a halt. The CONSTABLE draws beside him, and both men stare out.)
CONSTABLE. What is all that?
KULLERVO. Caribou.
CONSTABLE. Thousands of them must've come through here.
KULLERVO. Joo. He valk petween them—hide his tracks.
CONSTABLE. Who is this guy? I mean he's circling back, crossing over his own trail, laying decoys, and still covering thirty miles a day. He's crazy—I mean he's gotta be crazy, right?
KULLERVO. Dis guy—he not crazy.
CONSTABLE. What the hell d'you mean—he was living up here, no one around for a hundred miles, and he blows a man away for no reason? You don't think that's crazy?
ISHMAEL. (Offstage.) Ye pas fou. C'est un jeu pour lui. (He's not crazy. This is a game to him.)
CONSTABLE. (Glancing around.) Who said that? Hello?
(The clacking of spoons—like a rattle. Both men turn to find ISHMAEL walking out from the shadow of the woods. She is dressed in buckskin, too light for the weather, and her face is wrapped in a wool scarf She has no pack, only a knife strapped on her belt and a set of spoons in her hand. She clacks the spoons playfully—a jig.)
KULLERVO. Voikyrpa.
ISHMAEL. II te fait danser. Tu aimes la tune? (He's making you dance. You like the tune?)
KULLERVO. Get out of here.
36 ISHMAEL. Tu aimais danser avant. (You used to like dancing.)
KULLERVO. Go pack to your volf s den!
CONSTABLE. What's she saying?
KULLERVO. (Returning to trail) I don't know. She vitch—Loviatar—don't leesen.
CONSTABLE. (To ISHMAEL) I'm sorry, I don't speak—je ne parle—
(ISHMAEL laughs—her English is touched with a Quebecois accent and the rhythm of the First Nations, As she searches for words, she often mimes to conjure them with birdlike motions of her hands. She slides the spoons into a pocket.)
ISHMAEL. A crazy man does not do these things—comprends? Chat et souris— the cat and mouse, ouais? (Beat.) Do you 'ave any, ah, food?
CONSTABLE. Uh, yeah. Let me just—
KULLERVO. Don't give to her. She like vild dog—only come pack for more.
CONSTABLE. Kullervo.
(KULLER VO grunts and moves further down the trail, searching for tracks. The CONSTABLE pulls off his pack and opens it.)
CONSTABLE. I'm sorry for—ah, here we go.
(He brings out a piece of hardtack and breaks it in two, giving half to ISHMAEL, who munches hungrily.)
CONSTABLE. Who are you?
ISHMAEL. Ah, ah—t'at is somet'ing we do not ask. Qui etes-vous. Nos noms we give out here, we do not snatch—like wit' t'a food, eh?
CONSTABLE. Right, well I'm Constable Jonnson of the RCMP.
(ISHMAEL's eyes dart up suspiciously and she puts a hand on her knife.)
ISHMAEL. Johnson? Ton nom est Johnson? Ce n'est pas vrai. (Your name is Johnson? It can't be true.)
37 CONSTABLE. No—Jonnson.
ISHMAEL. 'Jonnson'? (Relaxing) Ah, mon erreur. But t'is guy you track, his name is Johnson, non?
CONSTABLE. Uh, that's right—but how did you—
ISHMAEL. I cherche for t'is Johnson. I been looking for 'im for long temps.
CONSTABLE. Really? Why?
ISHMAEL. Je vais tuer le b&tard pour avoir viole ma soeur. (I'm going to kill the bastard for raping my sister.) (Spits.)
CONSTABLE. I'm sorry, I didn't get—
ISHMAEL. Maybe I come with you, 'elp you track, eh?
(KULLER VO, still facing away, pulls his rifle off his shoulder.)
KULLERVO. Leaf now, or I shoot you.
ISHMAEL. Ah—tu ne pouvais jamais tirer droit. (Ah—you could never shoot straight)
KULLERVO. Huoranpenikka!
(KULLER VO levers a shot in his rifle.)
CONSTABLE. Now hold on just a minute here—what the—?
ISHMAEL. £a ne fait rien—merci pour ce biscuit insipide. (It's nothing— thanks for the dry cracker.) You better get this batard to 'urry up, you don't want Johnson to make it to t'a Richardsons—or (clacking the spoons) poof! Adieu!
(Without a backwards glance, ISHMAEL runs off into the darkness. KULLER VO relaxes, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder and returning to his examination of the trail.)
CONSTABLE. What the hell's your problem?
KULLERVO. You ever hear of Loviatar? (The CONSTABLE shakes his head.) Is myth. Loviatar is plind daughter of death and mudder of nine diseases.
CONSTABLE. Okay. What's that got to do with—
38 (KULLERVO digs through the snow—takes off his glove and holds his hand above the ground.)
KULLERVO. I knew dis voman in Vinnipeg. Vat she take from me, she no give pack. (Beat.) Der fire here—four maypee fife hours old. (Pointing.) His tracks— dey getting shorter. He tired. Come.
(KULLER VO stands, adjusts his pack and starts to walk off. The CONSTABLE struggles to shoulder his own load.)
CONSTABLE. I just thought, she's, y'know—well, this is her land, right? She could help us.
KULLERVO. Tikka, dat voman no more Indian den me. She no find her own arsehole if you draw her map.
CONSTABLE. Well.. .what did she mean about the Richardsons?
KULLERVO. Is mountains. No man cross dose mountains in vinter.
CONSTABLE. But what if he did?
KULLERVO. Ve no catch him.
("Kullervo's Theme "picks up in time with the foot beats of the two men marching off)
XVI (Evening light rises as the two men climb a ledge overlooking a canyon. A light snow is falling. The music is suddenly cut off by a familiar twang of the jaw harp. KULLERVO drops to his knees, motioning for the CONSTABLE to do the same.
KULLER VO squirms to the edge of the ledge and peers down. He motions for the CONSTABLE to join him. Both men stare down for a moment and then KULLER VO drags the other man back from the edge with him.)
CONSTABLE. (Whispering.) You see him?
KULLERVO. (Whispering.) Joo, under tree, py fire.
(Another twang of the jaw harp, from below.)
CONSTABLE. Well, he's gotta be—
39 (KULLERVO grabs the CONSTABLE's arm and both men freeze, listening. The jaw harp picks up the thread of "The Trapper's Theme."
KULLER VO pulls off his pack. He grabs his rifle and looks it over—finishing by pulling out the cartridge, checking it, and ramming it home.)
CONSTABLE. What're you gonna do?
KULLERVO. I kill dis guy.
CONSTABLE. You can't kill him—we've gotta arrest him.
KULLERVO. Tikka, dis guy no wanna be 'rested.
CONSTABLE. Well, you can't just shoot him unless he shoots at us—I gotta give him a chance to give himself up.
(The CONSTABLE begins to stand up, but KULLER VO drags him down.)
KULLERVO. You crazy? He shoot'Spector Eames.
CONSTABLE. But.. .that was over a week ago, he hasn't shot at us now—today.
KULLERVO. Mita vittua. Fine—I only shoot him in kneecap.
(KULLERVO starts to squirm back up the ledge, but the CONSTABLE grabs the rifle and tries to wrestle it from him.)
CONSTABLE. I can't let you risk killing—
KULLERVO. Haista vittu—let go—
CONSTABLE, -him—please, I need to—
KULLERVO. -let go, paskianen—
CONSTABLE, -know who this guy is—
KULLERVO. Let go!
(KULLERVO wrenches the rifle from the CONSTABLE, who puts both hands up in an appeal.)
CONSTABLE. Don't kill him.
(KULLER VO uses both hands to jam the barrel against the other man's throat.)
40 KULLERVO. Vonce maypee I dink like you. Come up here dinking maypee I see dings like dat again. Put here is everyvere. Everyvere is dogs. Is shit.
(He releases the CONSTABLE, who gasps for air. KULLERVO squirms to the edge and peers down. The theme of the jaw harp builds to a breaking point and then stops suddenly as KULLERVO leaps to his feet, aims andfires. Still staring down, he slowly lowers his rifle.)
CONSTABLE. Did you—
KULLERVO. Joo—I got him.
(A rifle booms from below and KULLER VO spins with the impact of the bullet, falling to the ground. His body slides past the CONSTABLE, leaving a trail of blood smeared on the snow.)
CONSTABLE. Oh my god—oh my god.
(He slides down to KULLER VO, who is opening and closing his eyes in shock— blood pouring out of a hole in his chest. The CONSTABLE stares at the wound, while KULLER VO looks at him helplessly.)
CONSTABLE. Okay. Stay calm. I'm gonna—everything's gonna be all right. Oh my god. Oh shit. Just—stay here, I'll be right back.
(The CONSTABLE squirms up to the edge of the ledge, stares down, but can't seem to find what he's looking for. He slides back down to KULLER VO.)
CONSTABLE. Okay—he's not there—I can't see him. Okay, I'm gonna—I'm gonna—
(He slides a hand under KULLER VO's back, feeling for something—KULLERVO grunts in pain.)
CONSTABLE. Sorry—needed to check to see if it—the bullet's still in you.
(Very carefully, the CONSTABLE pulls up KULLERVO's parka, until the wound is exposed.)
CONSTABLE. Oh, Christ.
(He looks around and then pulls a knife from KULLERVO's belt, holding it tentatively. He takes off a mitt, and places it in KULLER VO's mouth.)
CONSTABLE. I need to get it out. Okay?
41 (Shaking, the CONSTABLE brings the knife down and eases the point into the wound. KULLER VO spasms, screaming against the mitt. The CONSTABLE tries again, but this time KULLERVO knocks the knife away and spits the mitt out.)
KULLERVO. Haista vittu! Haista vittu!
CONSTABLE. I'm sorry—it's gotta come out.
(The CONSTABLE tries to bring the knife in again, but KULLER VO twists it out of his hand and turns the point around on him.)
KULLERVO. Mina tapan teidat.
CONSTABLE. Okay—okay, take it easy.
(KULLERVO is breathing heavily. The CONSTABLE looks up—the snow falling more heavily now.)
CONSTABLE. I'm gonna go get you help before this storm gets any worse.
(The CONSTABLE pulls his blanket off of his pack, wrapping it around KULLERVO, and then shoulders the rest of the load.)
CONSTABLE. You just.. .hang in there.
(As the CONSTABLE staggers off down the trail, KULLER VO summons the strength to sing his death march, "Jdakdrimarssi. " A wind begins to pick up.)
KULLERVO. (Singing.) Syva iskumme on, viha voittamaton, meil' armoa ei, kotimaata. Koko onnemme kalpamme karjessa on, ei rintamme heltya saata. Sotahuutomme hurmaten maalle soi, mi katkovi kahleitansa. ei ennen uhmamme uupua voi, kuin vapaa on Suomen kansa.
(The howling wind overtakes KULLER VO's voice and he fades into the storm.)
XVII (The CONSTABLE stalks through the middle of a raging storm, one arm in front of his face to block the wind and ice.
42 Mingling with the roar of the wind are the sounds of the CONSTABLE's past. Marching feet and voices rise in an indistinguishable cacophony of anger. Above it all a single voice calls, gusting as if carried on the wind.)
VOICE 2. Jonnson! Johnson! Jonnson! Johnson!
(The CONSTABLE stumbles to his knees, losing his pack before pulling himself up again and limping on. A bugle call—a high piercing note—begins to pulse in time with the wind, forcing the other sounds back.
The CONSTABLE trips again, sprawling forward. He feels around blindly and finds something wrapped in a blanket. He rips the blanket back to find the frozen body ofKULLERVO.
The CONSTABLE lurches to his feet in terror and reels off into the storm. The sound of the wind recedes, leaving only the pulsing tone of the bugle, which slowly becomes a frenetic cycle of notes, for the first time: "The Constable's Theme. "
As the lights fade on the storm, the familiar pool snaps on. The CONSTABLE steps into the light, flopping to the ground.
The bugle continues, impelling the return of the marching feet, the shouting voices. The memory sequence has reached its crescendo and plays out more feverishly than ever.)
VOICE 1. We will not be treated like animals!
(Other shouts, cheers, voices overlapping.)
VOICES. Down with the company store! / We won't work for starvation wages! / We want houses, not slums! / We want clean water!
(Cheers continue. A whistle is blown and then a more militant voice cries out.)
VOICE 2. Stay back! Stay back!
(The noise descends into an angry cacophony—shouting, breaking glass, honking horns. Above all the rest—)
VOICE 2. Jonnson!
(Silence—a SERGEANT steps into the light, his face obscured by the shadows of his Stetson. Both speak rapidly.)
43 SERGEANT. I solemnly swear that I will faithfully, diligently and impartially execute and perform the duties required of me as a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
CONSTABLE. I solemnly swear that I will faithfully, diligently and impartially execute and perform the duties required of me as a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
SERGEANT. And will well and truly obey and perform all lawful orders and instructions that I receive as such.
CONSTABLE. And will well and truly obey and perform all lawful orders and instructions that I receive as such.
(The SERGEANT drags the CONSTABLE to his feet.)
SERGEANT. Without fear, favour or affection.
CONSTABLE. Without fear, favour or affection.
(The SERGEANT places the CONSTABLE'S pistol in his hand.)
SERGEANT. Without fear, favour or affection.
CONSTABLE. Without fear, favour or affection.
(The SERGEANT raises the CONSTABLE's arm to aim.)
SERGEANT. Without fear, favour or affection.
CONSTABLE. Without fear, favour or affection.
(The unbridled noise of the crowd comes thundering back.)
SERGEANT. Above the crowd! (The CONSTABLE raises his pistol to the sky.) Fire!
(The CONSTABLE squeezes the trigger—a volley of gunshots. The crowd noise subsides slightly.)
VOICE 1. They're shooting at us, goddamnit!
VOICES. Don't shoot! / There are children here for chrissakes! / They're only firing blanks! / Please stop! / They're just trying to scare us!
(The voices combine in anger and fear. The SERGEANT draws his own pistol.)
44 SERGEANT. Aim low! (The CONSTABLE brings his pistol to bear.) Fire!
(The SERGEANTfires—a volley ofgunshots. Screams of terror and pain explode from the crowd. The CONSTABLE lowers his gun without firing.)
SERGEANT. Fire!
(Another barrage of shots. Screams, wails, and pleading.)
SERGEANT. Fire! (Turning to the CONSTABLE.) That's an order, Jonnson! (The CONSTABLE backs away.) Who the hell do you think you are, Jonnson? Who are you? Jonnson!
(The CONSTABLE staggers out of the light, as it snaps off, andfalls to his knees at the base of the TRAPPER's ridge.
A cool light begins to grow behind the ridge, backlighting the figure of the TRAPPER standing on top, looking down at the CONSTABLE. Slowly, the CONSTABLE lifts his head—the two men making eye contact for the first time.
The CONSTABLE tentatively raises his arm, reaching up to the TRAPPER. As the CONSTABLE strains to make contact, the TRAPPER steps back and fades from view.
The CONSTABLE wavers for a moment and then collapses fully to the ground— the sounds of the storm howling back as the light comes down.)
XVIII (The interior of a small chapel. A carvedfigurine of the Virgin Mary mounts a modest altar. FATHER PETITOT, a gaunt, white-hairedfigure in a threadbare cassock, is crouched in front of the altar. He is working with a paintbrush on a mural—a palette nearby. A cot off to side contains the CONSTABLE—tossing in his sleep.
The CONSTABLE suddenly jolts awake with a cry, startling PETITOT and causing his paintbrush to swipe in error.)
PETITOT. Sacrament!
CONSTABLE. Where—where am I?
PETITOT. (Muttering in prayer.) O Dieu trois fois Saint! je vous adore, je vous aime,
45 je vous benis par le Sacre-Coeur de Jesus au Tres Saint Sacrement de l'autel, et je vous offre, par les mains benies de I'lmmaculee Vierge Marie, toutes les Saintes Hosties qui sont sur nos autels—
(During PETITOT's recitation of the Act of Reparation, the CONSTABLE becomes conscious of his surroundings, andfinally interrupts the priest.)
CONSTABLE. What happened? (Taking in PETITOT.) Excuse me, uh, Father? Can you tell—
PETITOT. N'interrompezpas! (Don't interrupt!) et dans nos tabernacles, en sacrifice d'expiation de reparation et d'amende honorable, pour tous les sacrileges, les profanations—
CONSTABLE. Excuse-moi, monsieur, but can you tell me, uh—ou—ou est moi?
(PETITOT spits on a sleeve of his cassock and rubs at the paint.)
PETITOT. S'il-vous-plait—votre francais me rend malade. (Please—your French will make me sick.)
CONSTABLE. Sorry, uh, my French is not very good.
PETITOT. Un anglais ignorant, quelle surprise! Bienvenue a Notre-Dame-de-la- Derniere-Chance. Vous pouvez m'appeler Pere Petitot. (An ignorant Englishman, what a surprise! Welcome to Our Lady of the Last Chance. Call me Father Petitot.)
CONSTABLE. Ah! Petitot! Father...Petitot? I'm, uh—je suis Constable Jonnson. (He looks pleased with his attempt at communication.) Can you tell me—uh, quand je suis arrive?
PETITOT. Vous etiez inconscient et presque mort. Je voulais amputer vos pieds mais ce Metis m'a empeche. Votre odeur envahie ma chapelle depuis trois jours. (You were found unconscious and nearly dead. I wanted to cut off your feet but that Metis wouldn't let me. You have been stinking up my chapel for three days.)
46 CONSTABLE. Trois jours? Three days. I have to get back out—
(He struggles to get out of bed and then slumps back dizzily. PETITOT leans over with his paintbrush and draws a cross on the CONSTABLE's forehead. Dazed, the CONSTABLE doesn 't seem to notice.)
PETITOT. Hatez-vous lentement. Je vous amenerai de la soupe aux poireaux. (Make haste slowly. I'll bring you some leek soup.)
(PETITOT exits to another room. The CONSTABLE shakes his head, regaining his senses. He swings his legs over the edge of the cot, and suddenly realizes that he is only in his long underwear.
PETITOT reenters, carrying a steaming bowl to the CONSTABLE.)
PETITOT. C'estune recette de famille. Ma mere disait que sa soupe pourrait arreter la guerre. Mon pere murmurait - si seulement on le deversait sur les tetes des soldats ennemis! (It's a family recipe. My mother used to say that her soup could end the war. My father would whisper to me—only if we dumped it on the enemy!)
CONSTABLE. (Taking bowl.) Merci.
PETITOT. La soupe date de quelques semaines, je ne me souviens plus de quelle viande j'ai utilisee. (It is several weeks old so I'm not sure what meat I used in it anymore.)
(The CONSTABLE sips the broth, while PETITOT sits and watches him. The CONSTABLE flashes an exaggerated smile to show his enjoyment.)
CONSTABLE. Mm—tresbien!
(PETITOT continues to watch the CONSTABLE eat—both men periodically nodding and smiling at each other. After a long, but not totally uncomfortable silence, an idea suddenly occurs to PETITOT.)
PETITOT. Ah! Un moment!
(He walks to the altar and crouches in front of it. He flips switch on the back and suddenly static pours out of it. The altar has been constructed to contain a console radio. A light comes on underneath the Virgin Mary. PETITOT fiddles with a wooden knob on the front of the altar.)
PETITOT. Vas-y—vas-y!
47 (He finally slides into a station—a strident but personable voice caught in the middle of a radio programme.)
BROADCASTER. —and hopes you will come see her soon. We bring our next message to sourdough Farley Berton, panning a fortune somewhere on the Stewart River. From your mother—"Miss you and thinking of you, long underwear on its way for Valentine's Day, hope you still take a large. Hello from the nieces and nephews." (Shuffling of paper.) Our next message goes out to one of our valiant men in scarlet, stationed out of Aklavik—to Constable Jonnson—
CONSTABLE. That's me!
(PETITOT smiles encouragingly.)
BROADCASTER, -from Alice May—"Wishing you a happy New Year. Hope you are enjoying your service up there. I have married. Please don't try to reach me. Apologies." (Shuffling of paper.) Here's a message for a bankteller out of Dawson from your family back East— "Bob, we heard you might have been eaten by wolves, if you haven't please wire us soon." And a message for a madam in nearby Mayo from Lenny—
(The CONSTABLE, holding his head in his hands, starts to shake with silent sobs.)
PETITOT. Qu'y a-t-il ?
BROADCASTER. -"Josette, please come find me, I'm almost thirty." A message to a whaling camp off the coast of—
(The CONSTABLE starts to cry aloud—huge racking sobs, the pouring out of an ordeal. PETITOT scurries to the radio and shuts it off. Then he approaches the CONSTABLE.)
PETITOT. Je n'aime pas ce programme non plus. (I don't like this show either.)
(The CONSTABLE clutches at the hem of PETITOT's cassock, unintentionally dragging the other man onto the cot beside him.)
CONSTABLE. Oh, Father, I've lost faith.
PETITOT. Ah, ah—Tant va la cruche a l'eau qu'a la fin elle se brise. (So often does the jug go to water that in the end it breaks.)
CONSTABLE. I mean I'm not talking about religion here—no offense—I'm talking about life. I just lost my entire life—just like that. Poof! I mean, who does that—on the radio? Oh, god—sorry, Father, not 'God' God, just—just—god, I wanted to be things when I was growing up, wanted to do things, but then I just
48 grew up and I'm moving forward so fast trying to get away from whatever I used to be, and I see that person over my shoulder gaining on me, but I don't recognize him. Sure—I got a badge that says I'm an officer of the RCMP, but what the hell does that mean? It meant something when Alice May told me that she couldn't picture herself marrying a bank clerk, but this.. .isn't me. And now this—this can't be happening—I mean, what am I going to do without her? The things I've seen and the things I've done—I don't know what to believe. I don't know if I believe in anything. (Grasping PETITOT's hands in his.) What makes a person, Father? Who am I? Who—uh, damn—qui.. .qui je suis? Qui suis-je?
(The CONSTABLE repeats the question over and over, growing softer—a mantra. PETITOTputs an arm around the other man, and gently rocks him, singing the lullaby "Fais Dodo. " During this, ISHMAEL appears in the doorway, carrying a bundle, and watches the two men.)
PETITOT. (Singing.) Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frere, Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo. Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frere, Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.
Maman est en haut, Qui fait des gateaux, Papa est en bas, Qui fait chocolat.
Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frere, Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo. Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frere, Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.
(PETITOT lays the sleeping CONSTABLE back on the cot. As he swings the legs up, PETITOT grabs the feet, peering at the toes.)
PETITOT. Je le savais. Certaines d'entre elles doivent certainement etre amputees. Je reviens. (I knew it. Some of these certainly need to come off. I'll be right back.)
(PETITOT rises and exits into another room—without noticing ISHMAEL. She crosses to the cot and prods the CONSTABLE.)
ISHMAEL. Envoye! No time to dodo for t'a dodo.
(The CONSTABLE snaps awake, sitting up. He sees ISHMAEL and remembering he's in his underwear, he pulls the sheet about him.)
49 CONSTABLE. What—what're you doing here?
ISHMAEL. Who you t'ink bring ton gros cul in from t'at blizzard? You feeling mieux?
CONSTABLE. A little. That Father Petitot is a very kind man.
ISHMAEL. Tu pense? Ee's been trying to cut your pieds off.
CONSTABLE. What? No.
ISHMAEL. Ouais—t'inks you got t'a frost in t'em—gangrene. Crazy—totally fucke—but I got nowheres else to bring you, t'se? You didn't eat any of his soup, eh?
CONSTABLE. Why—what's in it?
ISHMAEL. I'd rat'er not say. (She tosses her bundle at him—his uniform.) We don't got beaucoup time. Habilles-toi.
CONSTABLE. (Pulling on his clothing.) Where are we going?
ISHMAEL. I'm sending you back chez toi. I show you t'a trail.
CONSTABLE. What about Johnson?
ISHMAEL. Fais-toi en pas, dodo. Picked up his tracks near that canyon, where your batard ami he die.
CONSTABLE. Well, then we need to wait until the posse arrives with fresh dogs and then we—
ISHMAEL. II n'y a aucune posse.
CONSTABLE. What?
ISHMAEL. I send'em back. I says to them'il n'y a rien up here, officers.' Tell 'em he gone south.
CONSTABLE. South.. .why wouldn't they wait for my report?
ISHMAEL. I tell t'em you die.
CONSTABLE. Die? They—they think I'm dead?
ISHMAEL. N'est pas grave—you just go back and c'est un miracle!
50 CONSTABLE. Why the hell would you do—?
ISHMAEL. I tell you—I find Johnson. Nobody get in my way.
CONSTABLE. Fine. I wanna come with you.
ISHMAEL. Tantpis.
CONSTABLE. Look—thanks to you, I'm the only law around. And there's something about this guy I just—I can't go back now.
(ISHMAEL stares at the CONSTABLE, weighing him for the first time. She spits in her hand and offers it.)
ISHMAEL. Just remember—'ee's mine, d'accord?
(Before the CONSTABLE can shake hands—PETITOT enters again, carrying a butcher's knife. When he spots the two others, he hides the knife behind his back.)
PETITOT. Est-ce qu'on fait la fete? (Are we having a party?)
ISHMAEL. Fat'er, I seen t'at couteau.
PETITOT. Quel couteau? (What knife?)
ISHMAEL. Je prends l'anglais dehors pour recongeler ses boules. (I'm taking the Englishman outside to freeze his balls again.)
(PETITOT looks at ISHMAEL and then at the CONSTABLE, suddenly agitated.)
PETITOT. Non.
ISHMAEL. Pere, calmer. (Father, calm down.)
PETITOT. II ne peut pas. (Bringing the knife out.) Qui va a la chasse se perd. (He can't. Who goes hunting loses himself.)
ISHMAEL. Pere.
PETITOT. C'est pour son bien. (it's for his own good.)
(As he says this, PETITOT lunges toward the CONSTABLE with the knife. ISHMAEL steps in between, grabbing PETITOT's wrist and wrestling for the weapon. The CONSTABLE falls back on the bed, unable to move.
51 ISHMAEL finally slaps PETITOT hard, twice. Stunned, he lets the knife go and seems to slowly recover himself.)
CONSTABLE. What—what was he trying to do?
PETITOT. Pardon. S'il vous plait laissez-moi (Beat.) Je n'ai pas eu l'occasion de lui montrer le chemin de Dieu. (Sorry. Please leave me. I didn't have the chance to show him the way to the Lord.)
(ISHMAEL sticks the butcher's knife into the altar, like a chopping block.)
ISHMAEL. (Laughs.) Tu l'handicape et ensuite tu le delivres? C'est la vocation du missionnaire. (You cripple and then you deliver? This is the way of the missionary.)
CONSTABLE. Hey—what just happened? Is he crazy or something?
ISHMAEL. II est seul. 'Ee is alone.
PETITOT. S'il vous plait aller.
ISHMAEL. 'Ee wants us to leave.
(The CONSTABLE forces a smile.)
CONSTABLE. Thank you for looking after me, Father, uh—merci.
(PETITOT avoids his eyes and turns once more to ISHMAEL.)
PETITOT. Soyez tendre avec lui, je crois qu'il est peut-etre un peu malade dans la tete. (Be gentle with him, I think he might be a little crazy.)
ISHMAEL. Nous le sommes tous. C'est ce territoire qui est trop sain pour nous. (We all are. It's this land that is too sane for us.)
(ISHMAEL drags the CONSTABLE out the door, while PETITOT stands alone. Lights fade on the chapel.)
XIX (Twilight—the CONSTABLE and ISHMAEL run through the foothills. ISHMAEL again travels light, the CONSTABLE has a smaller pack than before. As she moves, ISHMAEL clacks her spoons—almost like hoof beats. The CONSTABLE stops, bending forward and panting. ISHMAEL turns and regards him.)
52 CONSTABLE. I can keep up. (Notices ISHMAEL's skeptical stare.) I'll keep up!
(He staggers forward, and then falls on one knee. ISHMAEL sits on a rock and pulls out a whetstone to sharpen her knife—while the CONSTABLE catches his breath.)
ISHMAEL. T'is is t'a parti facile, Capitaine. We gotta get Johnson before 'ee reaches t'a Richardsons—'ee get up in t'ose montagnes and over t'a border and au revoir. On t'a demain we gonna be in t'a Barrens—and out t'ere is not'ing—no trees, no rocks, no animals—rien, comprends? We gonna go across un cent—one hundred mile wit' a blizzard at our back and we gonna run like never before. We gonna run or we gonna die. Can you make it, Capitaine?
CONSTABLE. I think so.
ISHMAEL. Tupense? Yout'inkso? (Scrapes the knife against stone throughout.) Down in St. Boniface, t'is man Johnson he stay at la boarding house where me and ma soeur Marisol stayed. One nuit, 'ee takes 'er out for a walk t'roo Whittier Park by t'a river and 'ee rapes 'er. It was known t'at t'is 'appen but nobody else t'ey wanna do anyt'ing about it. We go to la police and t'ey ask us if t'ere were any temoin —any witness who see t'is 'appen. Marisol say 'non, 'ee take me seule by the river.' T'is officer 'ee laugh and say "a girl like you, alone by the river at night—who knows?" Qui sait. Marisol she drink and t'en Marisol she drink all the water in the river. (Points the knife at the CONSTABLE.) Two year ago I leave St. Boniface to find Johnson and I will make it t'roo t'a Barrens. Je vais me rendre. I will make it. Will you make it, Capitaine?
CONSTABLE. Yes.
ISHMAEL. Will you make it?
CONSTABLE. I will make it!
ISHMAEL. You will? Qui vivra verra.
(ISHMAEL returns to sharpening her blade. The CONSTABLE stands and waits expectantly.)
CONSTABLE. Well—are we going?
ISHMAEL. I need to t'ink.
CONSTABLE. You were just saying how we need to hurry!
ISHMAEL. Ouais, but I need un moment.
53 (She puts her knife back in its place andjumps to her feet, walking to the edge of the hill.)
ISHMAEL. Venez ici. (Gestures for him to come.) Venez.
(The CONSTABLE walks over beside her, and they stare out at the landscape.)
ISHMAEL. You see t'at?
CONSTABLE. The mountains?
ISHMAEL. Non, apres les montagnes.
CONSTABLE. Well, there's nothing. It's just a flat.. .desert.
ISHMAEL. Desert of snow—c'est funny, non? T'at is t'a Barrens. I never see t'em, but I 'ave 'eard and je les aimes. I love them 'cuz it is t'a one place t'at is of no value. Sans valeur—mort! T'er is no lumber, not'ing to pull from la terre, no people to put to work. You—you did not come up here to make la fortune, eh?
CONSTABLE. No, but I can't say I.. .hate money. It's a nice thing to have.
ISHMAEL. Mais oui! Gold it is t'a last salvation of any man, n'est-ce pas? But at what cost?
CONSTABLE. Are you talking about.. .your people here? Because there are treaties and—
ISHMAEL. Mes personnes? I'ave no people, but if I did t'ey would be sleeping in t'a gutters de Winnipeg—t'ese are not my people. T'ese are t'a Dene tribes, t'a Inuit what you call Eskimo. But it has been t'a same everywheres.
CONSTABLE. Look, I'm not gonna try to defend the choices made in the past, but I can tell you—
ISHMAEL. Le passe? C'est maintenant!
CONSTABLE. —that it was done with the intent of bringing a kind of... liberation.
ISHMAEL. Oui—liberation! T'a traders take t'a food, t'en t'a missionaries take t'a stories and t'a Mounties take t'a land. T'is is liberation? T'a only t'ing liberated is on a map, so t'at t'em settlers and les prospectors can come in and take t'a rest. Chais pas you call this, but I call it viol. It is not a white man problem or a French or Anglais problem. T'is is true of all people when you tear open t'a
54 mother's belly and show him the black blood or t'a t'ings t'at glitter. T'a land t'en is no good for nobody. T'is is what 'appen when a man wants t'a gold. (Beat.) Pretty soon all lands look like t'a Barrens. (She stares off at something in the distance.) Enfin! Let's go.
CONSTABLE. What?
ISHMAEL. Voyez? I was lost, but now I found. Now t'at it's dark I can see his fire.
CONSTABLE. His fire? What about his tracks?
ISHMAEL. We don't need no tracks. (Bringing out her spoons and clacking for effect.) Don't worry, we just aim for t'at fire and we run into t'is gros.. .rien.
(ISHMAEL clacks out a rhythm as they run off toward the Barrens.)
XX (The percussive beat of the spoons settles into "Ishmael's Theme, "propelling the march through the wasteland. The CONSTABLE and ISHMAEL run through a seemingly limitless white space—the Barrens. They run without making any progress, their movements a perfect, flat rhythm, without deviation.
A noise grows behind them, a high-pitched whine.)
CONSTABLE. What is that?
ISHMAEL. What?
(The CONSTABLE gestures to listen and the two runners stop. The whine is growing in volume. A panicked look comes across ISHMAEL and she grabs a rope from the CONSTABLE's pack. She ties this quickly around her waist and gives it to him to do the same. As he works, she pulls a sheet from his pack, tearing two strips of cloth from it. They have to shout now to be heard.)
CONSTABLE. What the hell is it?
ISHMAEL. Ice storm!
CONSTABLE. What do we—
(His words are overcome as the whine becomes a sudden shriek of wind. They are blasted to their knees by a wall of wind at their backs. ISHMAEL takes one of the cloth strips and makes a blindfold over the CONSTABLE's eyes—she then does the same for herself
55 The beat of the spoons continues, becoming more panicked—matching the fury of the wind. Holding the rope ISHMAEL drags the CONSTABLE with her through the storm. For the first time, the mountains in the backgroundfade from view— swallowed by the storm.)
XXI (The storm subsides, and with it, the spoons. A different part of the glaring white, featureless landscape. ISHMAEL shuffles in, leading the CONSTABLE by the rope—both still blindfolded. She stops—trying to get a sense of direction.)
CONSTABLE. Can I take this goddamn thing off yet?
ISHMAEL. Non.
CONSTABLE. But the storm's gone—I can feel the goddamn sun!
ISHMAEL. Ecoutez, Capitaine—t'at was an ice storm. It has make the ground one big miroir—reflecting le soleil, comprends? You want to go blind de neige, you know what t'is is?
CONSTABLE. Snowblind—yeah, yeah.
ISHMAEL. You don't see not'ing and your eyes t'ey burn like hell. You want t'is?
CONSTABLE. No, but—
ISHMAEL. T'en, ta gueule.
(They continue to shuffle forward. ISHMAEL stops again and lifts the corner of her blindfold up—looks down.)
ISHMAEL. Calice.
CONSTABLE. What?
ISHMAEL. I t'ink we go in circles.
CONSTABLE. How can you tell?
ISHMAEL. I see tracks here. Our tracks.
CONSTABLE. What d'you mean you—
(The CONSTABLE lifts his blindfold and squints into the light to see ISHMAEL with her eyes already uncovered.)
56 CONSTABLE. What the hell?
ISHMAEL. I been cheating.
CONSTABLE. I've been stumbling around this—goddamnit, get this thing off me!
(The CONSTABLE struggles out of the rope connecting him to ISHMAEL.)
CONSTABLE. And what d'you mean you're lost?
ISHMAEL. The sun it is getting t'a fog up and I do not see les montagnes.
CONSTABLE. Well that's easy, they gotta be just.. .over... (Looking.) We're lost?
ISHMAEL. Ouais,j 'afraid.
CONSTABLE. How can we be lost for chrissakes—I thought you people were supposed to be good at this kind of thing?
ISHMAEL. Quoi?
CONSTABLE. Well, you're a goddamn Indian, aren't you?
ISHMAEL. Ferme ta gueule! I am no goddamn Indian. Je suis no any kind of Indian! Maman she was Crow, but she die before I remember and mon pere was t'a white batard who left us—but I am no goddamn white man. I am no goddamn woman, and t'ey volent mon nom so I am not no goddamn person eit'er. Nobody teach me the ways of anybody.
CONSTABLE. Sorry—I should've said native.. .or—
ISHMAEL. Say what you want, you cannot keep me in any of t'ose goddamn words. (Beat.) J'sais pas qui je suis, mais j'sais qui je ne suis pas. (I do not know who I am, but I know who I am not.)
CONSTABLE. Do you know.. .how to track at all?
ISHMAEL. T'is t'ey don't teach at t'at residential school.
CONSTABLE. Christ. And to think I've just been trusting you to lead us.
ISHMAEL. It's not my fault you t'ink stupide things.
57 (The CONSTABLE looks at the tracks more closely.)
CONSTABLE. Okay. Well, these are our tracks coming in from that direction. But the tracks that lead off here.. .there's only one set.
ISHMAEL. But we are deux.
(She follows this track a short way, finding a mound in the snow. She kicks this mound, and then reaches down and turns over the frozen body of a man—a heavy pack beside him. The CONSTABLE steps back in surprise.)
CONSTABLE. Jesus.
(ISHMAEL leans in closer and studies the man's face.)
CONSTABLE. You, uh, recognize him?
ISHMAEL. Johnson. I t'ink it is Johnson.
CONSTABLE. Are you sure?
ISHMAEL. It could be, but his face—the frost she burn it so good, I.. .chais pas.
CONSTABLE. He couldn't just freeze out here.
ISHMAEL. Pourqoui? Pourquoi, pourquoi, pourquoi! You do not deserve t'is paix!
(During this she suddenly leaps on the body, cursing as she kicks and scratches at it. She pulls her knife and raises it over her head—the CONSTABLE grabs her wrist just as she starts to plunge it down.)
CONSTABLE. Wait! I don't think—I—this can't be him.
ISHMAEL. Let go! Yout'inkI wantt'is? Deux ans I look for this trou de cul, so I can kill him slow, make him hurt t'a way he hurt Marisol. But mort est mort.
CONSTABLE. I'm telling you this isn't the end. Not with such a whimper—not from him.
(He grabs the pack, unbuckles it and starts pouring the contents out on the ground.)
ISHMAEL. Why do you care?
CONSTABLE. I just.. .1 mean who was this guy?
58 ISHMAEL. I told you, he live at la boarding—
CONSTABLE. I know, I know, but what else? Where was he from—what'd he do? What sort of things did he...believe in?
ISHMAEL. Je m'en fous! He rape Marisol—he rape ma soeur!
CONSTABLE. Are you sure?
ISHMAEL. II l'a viole et maintenant elle est morte! (He raped her and now she's dead!) You t'ink I lie?
CONSTABLE. No, I just—are you sure this man we've been following.. .is him?
ISHMAEL. Ouais—Johnson.
CONSTABLE. How do you know?
ISHMAEL. At la boarding house, I find une lettre from his frere, asking him to come up and stake some claim wit' him.
CONSTABLE. Right, but we don't know if Johnson ever made it up here. So that trader, Blake, he says that this guy shows up in the summer—nobody knows him, doesn't leave a name—but one of the locals says Berk Johnson's been waiting on his brother so this might be him? Then what the hell is Berk Johnson's brother doing building a cabin—I mean a fortress—on the Rat River. This guy is not just some petty lowlife—you've seen the way he's been toying with us. Maybe he's ex-military, I don't know.
(The CONSTABLE sifts through the contents of the pack.)
ISHMAEL. Calice. (Tears running free from her eyes.) J'suis desole, Marisol, I did not t'ink I had no tears left.
CONSTABLE. I'm just saying it's possible.
ISHMAEL. So, qui est-il? Who is it?
CONSTABLE. I don't know. (Beat.) There's no I.D., nothing with a name on it. Just tools, bullets, supplies, and—what the hell? (Picks something up.) Gold teeth? What the hell would he be carrying a bunch of gold teeth around for?
ISHMAEL. Un dentiste, peut-etre? (Beat. She gets ready to leave.) Okay.
CONSTABLE. Where're you going?
59 ISHMAEL. Oil penses-tu? Back t'a way we come. I will not rest until I 'ave seen Berk Johnson.
CONSTABLE. But—I can't leave. There's gotta be something in here, some pattern to things—I just need time to figure it out.
ISHMAEL. Envoye, Capitaine. Long way to go.
(ISHMAEL takes the CONSTABLE by the arm, but he seems to notice something.)
CONSTABLE. Wait a minute—what is that?
ISHMAEL. You can pick t'roo all t'a garbage you want back in Aklavik.
CONSTABLE. No, no—right there. More tracks, leading away from the body.
(ISHMAEL turns back quickly. With their eyes, they both follow a set of tracks past the body and up to—the mountains behind the clearing fog, lights slowly rising on the jagged silhouette again.)
ISHMAEL. Qui est-ce? Who has made t'ese tracks?
CONSTABLE. I dunno. Whoever killed this guy, I guess.
ISHMAEL. He don't 'ave any mark on him.
CONSTABLE. Well, something happened and we're gonna find out what.
ISHMAEL. Quoi? What does t'at mean?
CONSTABLE. Means we're not going back to Aklavik just yet.
(The CONSTABLE sets out on this new trail. ISHMAEL hesitates.)
CONSTABLE. Come on, we gotta hurry.
ISHMAEL. You seem...'appy.
CONSTABLE. I am happy—I mean I'm relieved. We've got another chance to get to the whole story here, find out who this guy was.. .or is. I mean, I think if you look at these tracks here—this is the same guy we've been following.
ISHMAEL. L'ennemi.
CONSTABLE. What?
60 ISHMAEL. You ever hear of t'a brush man, Capitaine?
CONSTABLE. A brush man—you mean like a woodsman?
ISHMAEL. Somewheres it's called t'a brush man, or nakani—arulataq, mahoni, nuk-luk—t'ey got beaucoup names for it. But t'a ones t'at scared of it most call it I'ennemi—t'a Enemy.
CONSTABLE. Wait a minute, you're not trying to say that this man is—
ISHMAEL. Sometimes a man, he stops being a man.
CONSTABLE. Oh, yeah? And what does he become?
ISHMAEL. He don't be anyt'ing. He lose himself. T'ey say I'ennemi he walk t'a nord cuz he no belong anywheres else. He is living in hate.
CONSTABLE. Hold on—you don't really believe that crap? I mean those sound like stories you scare children with.
ISHMAEL. Ouais—stories. But t'ey are not mine.
CONSTABLE. Kullervo said some weird stuff like that too, but this isn't some... forest spirit—I mean this is a man. He's got a gun—spirits don't have guns. There's footprints, a body—this is a man we're chasing here. (Hepulls the crumpled magazine out of his pocket.) See this? These are stories. There's good guys and there's bad guys, and this is a bad guy here. He's killed at least two people. It's my job to catch him. That's—that's justice.
ISHMAEL. C'est ne pas justice you care about.
CONSTABLE. Look—Kullervo wanted money, you want revenge—all I want is to bring this guy in. If he gets into those mountains, he's gone for good—you said it yourself. He becomes the Man With no Name—the one who fooled the RCMP and got away.
ISHMAEL. So you stop him and people talk about you, maybe? Talk about how you chase t'is big bad guy and capture him when no one else can? Maybe t'en t'ey write une histoire about you?
CONSTABLE. No, I—but is that so horrible?
ISHMAEL. T'is is not no story and you are not no hero, Capitaine.
(The CONSTABLE looks down at the magazine and then tosses it away.)
61 CONSTABLE. You coming or not?
ISHMAEL. Ouais. Someone 'as to make sure you do not lose yourself.
CONSTABLE. The way you track, think I'm better off on my own.
ISHMAEL. T'at is not what I mean.
(ISHMAEL pulls out her spoons and walks past the CONSTABLE and off down the trail. The spoons clack, like the rattling of bones, and then the sound becomes the rhythm of "Ishmael's Theme. ")
XXII (Darkness. The bone rattle of the spoons gives way to the jarring crack of ice, then—a splash of a body hitting water. A twang of the jaw harp—thick and muffled, as if heard underwater.
A fragile light shows the CONSTABLE suspended in water. His eyes closed, he appears calm—sleeping.
The voice of a woman, calling teasingly—)
VOICE 3. Jonnson! Jonnson! Where are you, my love? Have you missed me? (Giggling.) Tell me I'm your only love—the only thing that matters. Whisper it to me. (Beat.) I don't believe you. Prove it to me.
I can't love you like this. Everything about you is so.. .average. You're not even half a man. Eames, even Kullervo, are better men than you. And this man you're following—always one step ahead—he's done things you can only dream of while you sit there lazy, wasting away. But it's not too late. You can be something more, but you have to want—have to take. You need to pull that trigger and decide what you want to be— forgotten or remembered. A ghost or a man. Look at yourself—take a good look.
Who are you? Who are you really? Jonnson? Jonnson. Jonn-son. Johnson. Johnson!
(With this last call, the militant voice returns, echoing.)
VOICE 2. Johnson!
(The CONSTABLE'S eyes open. Another twang of the harp—and a silhouette of the TRAPPER is lit up, floating in the water. The two men face each other. The CONSTABLE opens his mouth to scream but instead out pours the jaw harp playing "The Trapper's Theme. "
62 Darkness.)
XXIII (The splash of water—the sound of the CONSTABLE gasping for air.
A spark of a match and lights rise on a campfire on the Barrens. The CONSTABLE is shaking uncontrollably at the fire's edge, soaking wet. ISHMAEL has just finished lighting the fire and turns to her partner.)
ISHMAEL. We get t'ese off, maintenant!
(She starts pulling off his clothing, stripping him naked as she talks.)
ISHMAEL. You grand batard, you go right t'roo, like t'a ice it hungry for you.
CONSTABLE. I'm so cold.
ISHMAEL. Mais oui, tu es froid! And if we don't get t'ese clothes off we gonna need Fat'er Petitot wit' his couteau to chop chop chop. Oh, you goddamn grand batard, t'at ice she wanna keep you. I tell you t'is mauvaise idee. You goddamn lucky I go in t'ere and carry your grand cul de batard. Voila!
(Having stripped his clothes off, she grabs a sleeping bag. Sitting behind him, she wraps the blanket around both of them.)
CONSTABLE. I saw something down there.
ISHMAEL. Quoi—like poisson?
CONSTABLE. No—I heard a voice talking—a woman's voice.
ISHMAEL. What is it she say?
CONSTABLE. I don't remember.
ISHMAEL. When 'ee 'ad le big faveur to ask, t'a Inuit shaman he would go see t'a woman at t'a bottom of t'a water, ask her for t'a help.
(ISHMAEL has been stripping off her own clothing and tossing it outside the blanket. There is nothing sexual in this—it is an act of survival.)
CONSTABLE. What're you doing?
ISHMAEL. I get wet going in t'ere after you. My toes, t'ey get the frostbite and I no good anymore. Peau nue is t'a only way we save each ot'er.
63 CONSTABLE. I can't feel anything.
ISHMAEL. It come back pretty soon and t'en it gonna blesser real good.
(The CONSTABLE gasps in pain.)
ISHMAEL. Ouais—t'ere it is.
CONSTABLE. I think she was partly my fiancee—my ex-fiancee. She was telling me my name. What does that mean?
ISHMAEL. Chais pas. I not Inuit. But I do know you must be tres careful not to ever take from t'ose ot'ers, what you call les fantomes. Tu prends et tu donnes—if you give of yourself, you no get back, comprends?
CONSTABLE. Yeah, but no, I didn't take anything. Maybe she was asking me who I was. It was just a stupid dream.
ISHMAEL. Who you was?
CONSTABLE. Am—who I am.
ISHMAEL. Qui etes-vous ?
CONSTABLE. I don't.. .1—it was a dream.
(He collapses into shivering. ISHMAEL rubs him to get circulation going.)
ISHMAEL. I'm Ishmael.
CONSTABLE. Ishmael.
ISHMAEL. I got t'at from a book I read at l'ecole. Appelez-moi Ishmael. I did not know my ot'er name, le nom maman she gave me. After she die, I was adopte by a Cree family on t'a reserve. But t'ey come for me after my six anniversaire and t'ey put me in t'at ecole de residential and I see no family no more. T'ey hit me when I use t'a Cree words for t'ings and t'ey hit me if we talk about Wisagatcak or t'a spirits—so I don't do t'ose t'ings no more. Many people die of disease—one boy he die on his desk beside me in t'a class. I leave when I am quinze—fifteen—with Marisol, who is like a sister to me. I don't speak nothing good enough, don't know t'a ways of t'a whites or t'a red. T'ey tell me I'm a Canadien now and I go where I want, but nobody wants me anywheres. (Beat.) T'a only t'ing I ever keep to say in Cree is 'I am sick' and 'goodbye'—cuz t'ese are t'a t'ings we say t'a most. (Beat.) So I get my own name, and now I give to you, Capitaine. You give me yours.
64 CONSTABLE. It's just...Johnson.
ISHMAEL. Johnson?
CONSTABLE. Jonnson. It's Jonnson. (Beat.) Y'know when you say a word, a word you've been using your whole life, like 'blanket', and one day you say it and you hear yourself saying it, you picture the letters—and for the first time it doesn't make any sense. It just... falls apart.
ISHMAEL. Ouais—c'est chaotique.
CONSTABLE. I was stationed in Estevan, this little mining town—coal mining. The miners were working in horrible conditions—dangerous—for shit wages. A couple of men died in these cave-ins that probably coulda been prevented and the company's slashing wages because of the 'economy'—real dark time. The miners they start talking about organizing, y'know, trying to make some changes, but the company says they won't negotiate with communists. So the miners plan a little parade, with their families—right down main street, up to city hall. Anyway, the company gets wind of all this and they lean on the mayor, so the morning of the parade—a couple of dozen of us officers are lined up on the city hall steps. The word goes out—It's a hard line—no demonstrating. But here comes this train of cars, honking, people waving, smiling. There's some banners and singing—show of spirit, sure, but I don't think it was supposed to be violent. There was a lot of shit in the papers later, fingers pointed on both sides and I can tell you I got no real idea what happened there. But I'm pretty sure if those miners had their way, there wouldn't have been any blood in the streets that day. (Beat.) Somebody got pushed—I dunno who or who did it. Somebody threw a brick. Then we were hitting people with our batons—old people, children—you couldn't help it, people everywhere. It was panic, or adrenaline. Everyone was shouting, but I heard the Sergeant, clear as a bell, telling us to draw our guns, fire above the crowd—just to scare them. And it did, it did scare them—so bad that they couldn't get out of the way. Then the order was given to fire into the crowd. (Beat.) This guy, not three feet in front of me, point blank like the blood was trying to jump outta him—his eyes looking at me, me the last thing he seen. Three people died from the bullets, others were trampled, beaten—I don't know how many. (Beat.) I didn't shoot. I was the only one. I couldn't. I shook like a baby—pissed myself. After—my friends were not my friends. I got spit on and abused and called.. .everything— communist, fascist, coward, pinko spy, lousy immigrant, traitor.
ISHMAEL. But you did not do anyt'ing!
CONSTABLE. That's right—I did nothing. But I wanted to, y'know? I wanted to follow that order—pull that trigger. Be a part of that later—the pats on the back, the camaraderie. Just...belong.
65 ISHMAEL. And t'a people—t'a miners?
CONSTABLE. To hell with the people—they hated me even more. In the end they got what they wanted out of it—better wages, conditions. But what about me? My whole life, there's this feeling that I had to be something—dunno what— but something, y'know? Well, look at me—I'm shit. I'm less than nothing.
ISHMAEL. Capitaine, you're talking to t'a wrong personne.
CONSTABLE. Oh, I know. I'm not supposed to feel this way. I'm.. .normal, right? Not like you, or Marisol, or Kullervo, or the miners who got shot or even this son of bitch wandering out here. I've got no right. Because I'm supposed to fit in—just like that. Well, I don't. Because I was too much of a fucking coward to finally do something and pull a trigger. And if I could go back, I'd do it. I would.. .because everything would be different. So what—am I a horrible person? Who does that make me?
ISHMAEL. You're Jonnson.
CONSTABLE. I'm not Jonnson. I'm not Johnson.
(Silence. ISHMAEL rubs her toes.)
ISHMAEL. Calice. T'ese stupide pieds of mine go dead on me.
CONSTABLE. I'm not holding on to anything.
(The strident sound of a bugle—a long yearning note, easing into "The Constable's Theme " as the light fades on the two around the fire.)
XXIV (A wave of colour rises, slowly churning above the mountains—the northern lights. A flat, frozen pond—like a bullring—at the base of the mountains, looming larger than ever, peaks like fangs.
The CONSTABLE rushes on, and ISHMAEL, limping noticeably, follows behind.)
CONSTABLE. Hurry!
ISHMAEL. I go fast as I go, Capitaine.
CONSTABLE. We're almost—
(He stops in mid-thought as he turns to see the mountains. Standing at the edge of the pond, the northern lights spill across his face.)
66 CONSTABLE. "Then he was alone, and I was alone, and over us menaced the North." (Beat. ISHMAEL limps up next to him.) Just a poem I read somewhere.
ISHMAEL. T'is does not 'ave to be about you and him.
CONSTABLE. What do I have left to lose? I've lost my fiancee, I've pretty much lost this job. I don't have any family—nothing to go back to. I know this sounds strange, but he's the only thing that's been clear. (Beat.) His tracks have been straight these last days, almost like he wants us to find him.
ISHMAEL. Sound like a trap to me.
CONSTABLE. I dunno. I've been dreaming about him. Since Estevan, all I ever dream about's that moment. That instant when nothing happens. When it all starts to fall apart. But lately, after that moment he arrives.
ISHMAEL. You know t'is man?
CONSTABLE. No—I dunno...1 can never tell. He doesn't speak and I can't quite make him out. But when I first see him, there's this flash—-just for a second—like when you catch your reflection in a mirror down the hall and it's like you're seeing a complete stranger—the way other people must see you. It's like what we were talking about with words becoming strange all of sudden. That feeling of stepping outside of things. (Beat.) It's almost like he's giving me a second chance, y'know?
ISHMAEL. Capitaine, nobody just offers t'er t'roat, n'est-ce pas? Not for not'ing. It is like what I tol' you about t'a femme under t'a water—if you take what she offer, you must cut off part of yourself. Like t'a Fat'er with his couteau—chop chop.
CONSTABLE. What would he need from me?
ISHMAEL. Chais pas. Seem like you t'a only one t'at wants to pull t'a trigger.
(Silence.)
CONSTABLE. Yeah, well, it's just a dream. (Beat.) Anyway, these tracks look fresh, so he's gotta be around here somewhere. Let's go.
ISHMAEL. Jenepeuxpas.
CONSTABLE. C'mon—we're so close.
ISHMAEL. I cannot go no more. My foot—she got the cold in her and she go dead on me.
67 CONSTABLE. We'll walk it off.
ISHMAEL. I came pour Marisol, and for her I go. Whoever t'is man is he do rien a moi. I must find Johnson.
CONSTABLE. We're right here! These tracks are hours—maybe minutes old, and you said it yourself, if he gets up into those mountains, he's gone for good.
ISHMAEL. T'en let him go.
CONSTABLE. I can't just let him walk away.
ISHMAEL. I need to get back to the Fat'er.
CONSTABLE. Petitot? That's at least.. .five days back.
ISHMAEL. The cold she in t'ere bad, I could lose t'a pied or it get in my blood.
CONSTABLE. I'll find him on my own.
ISHMAEL. Capitaine.. .1 need your help to get back.
(Silence. The CONSTABLE's focus wavers between ISHMAEL and the mountains.)
CONSTABLE. Just stay here. (Beat.) I'll go...deal with him and we'll head back—get your foot fixed up and all that.
ISHMAEL. I go maintenant, or I don't make it.
CONSTABLE. You'll never find your way back—you got no sense of direction. Listen, we'll bring him in together. Think about it—your picture on the front page, your name on everyone's lips, something that'll last—
ISHMAEL. You will try to take his story, but you forget your own. Je sais, t'is is t'a sadness t'at 'appen to my life. T'is t'a sadness of many.
CONSTABLE. But...we could...mean something.
ISHMAEL. I don't wanna be in no story no more. (Limping away—she turns back.) Ki'htwa'm ka-wa'pamitina'n.
(ISHMAEL takes out her spoons. She turns and wanders off back into the Barrens, leaving the CONSTABLE alone. Her spoons, clacking the beat of "Ishmael's Theme, " slowly fade into the distance until all is silent.
68 The CONSTABLE stares up at the mountains.)
CONSTABLE. Who are you? (Waits. More loudly.) Who are you? (Waits. Shouting.) WHO ARE YOU?
(From far off, his words are echoed back—the question returned. The northern lights dissipate as the red light of dawn breaks across the mountain range. At the instant of dawn, there is the twang of the jaw harp—the TRAPPER steps into view on a ridge—backlit, so his body is outlined in the sky, mythic like the peaks behind him. He has the jaw harp in his mouth and a rifle, a Savage .30-30, across one shoulder. Another twang.
"The Trapper's Theme " is played as the TRAPPER descends from the ridge. The CONSTABLE begins to pace the outside edge of the pond, moving away from the other man. As the TRAPPER reaches the ring, the bugle sounds—playing "The Constable's Theme "—and for the first time it is apparent that the two themes are parts of a larger whole.
The CONSTABLE draws his service revolver for the first time. The TRAPPER works the lever on his rifle while the CONSTABLE pulls the hammer on his gun— CLACK! This sound sets off the clacking of the spoons, "Ishmael's Theme."
The men pace the outside of the pond's edge, moving clockwise, until they are facing directly across from each other—in profile with the mountains behind them. They stand with their rifles at their sides.
Both men step just over the edge of the ring. With this step the strings of the jouhikko come into play, "Kullervo's Theme. "
With all four parts, the "Rat River Theme " throbs with feeling—anxiety and wild joy intermingling. Both men are marble statues, only the flexing of the hands betraying any life. All attention of each one focused on the other. The sky above them is blood red.
The tension is pushed beyond reason before the music finally swells—both men bring their arms to bear, their bodies ready to release and then—the revolver slips from the CONSTABLE's grasp as he is overcome with tremors, falling to his knees.
The music hangs silently andfor a moment it is not clear what has occurred. The TRAPPER hesitates, and then strides slowly across the circle. He stands above the CONSTABLE, looking down at the shaking wreck.)
CONSTABLE. (Stuttering.) Who—who—who—?
69 (The TRAPPER grabs the CONSTABLE by the front of his parka and yanks him to his feet. The TRAPPER thrusts the rifle butt first into the other man's trembling hands. The CONSTABLE shakes his head, trying to resist—the TRAPPER slaps his roughly across the cheek and presses the rifle more firmly into the Mountie 's hands.
The TRAPPER takes a hold of the barrel with two hands and places it against his own belly. They stand like this, frozen, the CONSTABLE staring helplessly while the TRAPPER meets his eyes unflinchingly, imploring.
The CONSTABLE's finger finds the trigger. His body slowly loses the tremors, settling into a stillness. This moment aches, yearning to be broken andfinally— BOOM!
The TRAPPER staggers back, eyes widened in shock, hands grasp at the sack of blood around his waist.
The CONSTABLE's movements grow in confidence, levering another shot— CLACK! Pulls the trigger—BOOM! The TRAPPER spins to one side.
The CONSTABLE levers—CLACK! He pulls—BOOM! The TRAPPER spins to the other side.
CLACK! Following each lever, the CONSTABLE takes a step across the circle toward the TRAPPER. BOOM! With each successive shot, the TRAPPER flops grotesquely like a ragdoll around the ring. The violence of this sequence is elongated, dragged beyond necessity or reason.
After the 12th shot, the TRAPPER falls down on his back. The CONSTABLE stands over him. He aims the rifle at the head of the prone man and pulls the trigger. Instead of the final shot, the music comes back—at a more subdued tempo. Lights fade—leaving only the bloody sky to cast silhouettes of the two men.)
XXV (Lights rise on the CONSTABLE, walking the road home. He is dragging a coffin, the grey pine box from the opening—only now closed— behind him. His body strains against the burden, but his face is grim and set against the task. As he walks, the mountains in the background once again fade entirely from view.
Finally, the CONSTABLE drops the rope holding the coffin. With this motion, the spoons stop clacking. Panting, he gets his hands under the box and heaves it until it is standing upright—as originally. The journey seems to have aged him—his body is stooped, his movements pained.
The lights slowly rise on two areas from the beginning—coffin and study.
70 The CONSTABLE pries open the lid of the box, revealing the body of the TRAPPER—eyes closed, hands crossed stiffly over his chest. With this motion the jouhikko vanishes from the theme. Drab clothing, pants tied with a cord, hang loosely on the emaciated body. The face is gaunt, stubbled, and the lips are curled back from the teeth in some kind ofgrimace or grin.
The CONSTABLE crosses to the study, and places the rifle in its cradle above the fireplace. With this, the bugle part comes to an end—only the jaw harp playing "The Trapper's Theme " remains—it too slowing. He takes the blanket off the armchair and wraps it around himself. He is once again an old man.
As he settles back in the armchair, the yellow face of a radio winks on at the opposite side of the stage. The sound of the voice from before, returning to later in that same programme.
During this, all that can be seen of the CONSTABLE is his hand, writing carefully on the pad ofpaper. By the conclusion of the address, the light has strengthened on both the TRAPPER's face and the CONSTABLE's hand.)
BROADCASTER. Why do we care? Why do we still ask, thirty-five years after his death, and why will we continue to ask thirty-five years further on? Do we want to know the man or do we want to own a piece of him—become him. Who was he really? Who?
I've got a confession to make, folks. This idea of North has fascinated me, as it's fascinated many people in our country. But I've never been to the North. Oh, sure, I've talked about it on here every week, bought a parka once, but I'm an outsider. All I have is this boy's fantasy of icebergs and tundra, sled dogs and igloos, and lonely spaces. It's like looking in the mirror and only seeing part of your face—an eyebrow or an ear—and trying to forget about the rest.
I'd like to read you one last letter here before I sign off for the final time. And this one is a special one, a little different. I've just opened this envelope and it's got no return address, no date. A prank, a little mystery? I'll let you be the judge. It begins "Dear J." That's it, just the initial, and here's what it says—"Memory is a strange thing, friend. Here we are so many years later—years that have not been kind to you, I hear. You've grown old. Regrets and guilt about things done and left undone. But here I am, still young. And there's the funny thing about memory. While you sit there in your chair, pieces of you crumbling away, while each day brings you closer to nothing as the handful of people who knew you forget or die—I'm still here. Oh, sure, the things they say are not all true, some of them aren't very nice, but they say my name. Thanks to you, I've become something.
71 But you—well.. .even you don't remember. Do you still live your life without fear, favour, or affection? Was it really just some never ending chase? Were we really that far apart in the end? Who are you?
(During the recitation of this letter, the benign warmth of the voice has slowly been replaced by something more sinister—a hint of the SERGEANT'S voice creeping in.)
Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?
(As the final words are repeated, whispering away, the notes of the jaw harp slow to a halt—like a music box winding down. With the final twang, the CONSTABLE'S hand seems to lose life, falling to the tabletop. As the light dies on the hand, it intensifies on the TRAPPER—a white flash igniting the coffin, surging with a sudden life, and then darkness.)
CURTAIN
72 AFTERWORD
On December 31st, 1931, with one year bleeding into the next, an RCMP posse arrives at a cabin on a desolate river in the Northwest Territories. Following up on a routine complaint about an alleged tampering with traplines, Constable Alfred
King's lcnock is answered by a rifle shot, the bullet shattering through the cabin door and hitting him in the chest. Nearly two months later and hundreds of kilometers away, the shooter would lie dead on a frozen river, spackled by the bullets that ended the most infamous manhunt in the history of the RCMP. It is this man's silence that seeps down more than three quarters of a century and still demands answers.
Tracing the myth of Albert Johnson, the "Mad Trapper of Rat River," has almost become a myth in my own life: his story was a constant whisper in the back of my mind, fueled by periodic bouts of obsessive research that only seemed to make him more vague and unreachable. Years ago, I was in a gas station on the outskirts of Espanola, a paper-mill town on the outskirts of Sudbury, spinning a wire rack of books and finding Outlaws of the Canadian West by M.A.
MacPherson. It was an unapologetically pulpy collection of stories, but the final piece was headed by the only known photographs of Albert Johnson, taken after his death. His body hangs from a hook, his frostbitten and emaciated face dominated by a slash of a mouth, curled in what seems to be a leer or grin. This is the first time I asked the question that has been and will continue to be repeated about this man: "Who?"
73 The facts that are known about the man are scarce. He arrived in the settlement of Fort McPherson, Northwest Territories, in July of 1931. A man named Johnson had been expecting his relative Albert to arrive during the early summer, but had since moved out of the area. Locals remembered the name, and when a stranger arrived in camp, a rare experience, they found he answered to but did not necessarily introduce himself by the name Albert Johnson. He purchased supplies, spoke little to anyone and was interviewed by Constable Edgar "Spike"
Millen. His speech may have been coloured with a slight Scandinavian accent, but he left no clear indication as to where he came from or what his future plans were.
He would build his cabin on an isolated promontory on the Rat River and would remain there until the fateful visit by the RCMP at the turn of the year. From the beginning to the end of the manhunt, he spoke not a word to anyone, giving no reason for his actions. With considerable wilderness expertise and superhuman endurance, he defied an RCMP posse that expanded to include dozens from the
Northwest and Yukon Territories, the first extensive use of portable radio in the field and an aircraft, piloted by World War I Ace Wop May. Four confrontations with Johnson during the chase left two officers wounded and one dead: Spike
Millen, the same officer who interviewed him in the summer. Johnson was finally brought down by a series of bullets on the Eagle River, some 240 kilometers from his cabin. An emaciated shell of the former man, he was still lugging a pack weighed down with an arsenal of weapons, supplies, and almost $2500 in cash.
Missing was any form of identification.
74 This is what ultimately draws everyone to Johnson's story: the extraordinary physical feats and the enigma of the man behind them. During the chase he repeatedly baffled his pursuers: setting decoy trails, doubling back, wearing his snowshoes backwards, hiding his tracks among a caribou herd. He scaled a nearly vertical sheet of ice to escape a canyon and accomplished what both First Nations and White trappers believed impossible: he crossed the peaks of the Richardson Mountains in a blizzard. Such feats, while accounted for meticulously by the RCMP, still teeter on the edge of our understanding, as
Johnson expert Dick North notes: "To this day, no one knows how he managed an achievement which seasoned mountaineers with the best of food and equipment would have hesitated to attempt" (North 39). He survived on only the small game he could trap on the run, little sleep, few if any fires, and still managed to cover as much as fifty kilometers per day in weather as cold as fifty degrees below zero.
The author of an account of the recent exhumation of Johnson's remains, Barbara
Smith, notes that what continues to be fascinating about the man is the complete absence of answers to fundamental questions: "It was his behaviour, his apparent strong desire not to socialize or share any information about himself, that made people wonder about him. Who was he really? Why was he in the Arctic? Where had he come from?" (Smith 11).
Lacking any definitive origin story or motivation, Johnson exists purely as action; he becomes a blank slate onto which others have superimposed images more romantic or conclusive. This collective manufacturing of an identity serves only to further ensure Johnson's mythic status. The media of the time popularized
75 the moniker "Mad Trapper of Rat River," which would come to headline the legend, but Johnson never showed any indication that he was running any trap- lines, and Inspector A.E. Eames, the leader of the manhunt, refuted the claim that the man was insane: "On the contrary, he showed himself to be an extremely shrewd and resolute man, capable of quick thought and action, a tough and desperate character" (North 22-23).
Multiple theories persist about Johnson's true identity: an American gangster on the run, a crazed hermit, a professional soldier and Swedish political refugee, a spurned lover, a missing relative. The most interesting theory, originally put forward by North, suggests that Albert Johnson was simply the alias of another man named Arthur Nelson. Nelson, who was encountered mostly in the area west of where Johnson first appeared, fits the physical description and mannerisms of the other man, being similarly reclusive and even reportedly fluent in Swedish. He also bought supplies in the Yukon - Savage rifle, Beecham's pills
- that were later found on Johnson's corpse. Nelson was last spotted in Keno in the Yukon in the spring of 1931. By the time Johnson appeared in Fort
McPherson in the fall of the same year, Nelson was never seen again. Other speculation suggests that Johnson murdered Nelson; among Johnson's possessions were several gold teeth. However, even if this theory were true, it provides little illumination because "no more is known about Arthur Nelson than is known about
Albert Johnson. As a result, all the same questions remain" (Smith 46).
Many people came forward to claim the dead man as a relative or friend, either to gain the not insignificant amount of money Johnson carried with him, or
76 to complete a frayed story in their own lives. The death photographs, dental records, and fingerprints encouraged speculation but provided no firm connection; no figure emerged from the background. In 2007, Myth Merchant Films worked with a team of forensic scientists to exhume Johnson's remains from his grave in
Aklavik, Northwest Territories. By using the latest in DNA extraction and testing, the group hoped to match Johnson's DNA with a living family member and conclusively prove his identity. This trial, documented in film and in Smith's book, tested every reliable lead, but even in death, Johnson eluded his pursuers.
In the wake of this latest and most exhaustive investigation, it seems ever more likely that Johnson's "true" story will never be fully known. What remains then is the barest of facts, only the actions of the man. But as extraordinary as these historical actions may be, they only transform to mythic proportions through embellishment in the telling. In John Ford's study of mythmaking, The Man Who
Shot Liberty Valance, James Stewart plays Ransom Stoddard, famed in the town of
Shinbone for being the man who shot the villain of the title. Years later, when
Stoddard reveals the truth, that Liberty Valance was shot in the back by another man, the reporter he confesses to destroys the evidence and declares the credo of the film: "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." When history can no longer satisfy, when our longing calls for something more than what actions contain, we turn to myth.
It's hopelessly naive to consider history as pure truth and myth as pure fiction; both are stories as seen through a different lens. If history can be seen as impersonal, or removed from the individual, myth attempts to place the individual
77 within the frame of past and present. In his brilliant work Warlock, Oakley Hall uses his narrator Henry Holmes Goodpasture, a newspaper reporter, to speak directly to the notion of story: "As time goes on...will not this cheap and fabulous account in this poor excuse for a magazine become, on its own terms, a version much more acceptable than ours, the true one? It is a curious thought; how much do these legends, as they outstrip and supersede their originals, rest upon Truth, and how much upon some dark and impenetrable design within Man himself?"
(Hall 179). As someone who participates in the relationship between history and myth in his role as reporter, Goodpasture understands that the creation of myth places the creator within the myth, skewing history to power his intent.
The myth of Albert Johnson has supplied the man with many identities, each one presenting a different self-serving portrait. Thomas York, in his sprawling and poetic work of fiction Trapper, takes the historic players in the manhunt and imagines narratives for them. For York, the host of supporting characters becomes equally as compelling as Johnson himself. In his introduction,
York discusses how, with this wider scope, he hoped to avoid some of the poor choices he perceived other writers, such as Rudy Wiebe and Dick North, had made in bending Johnson's story to form their own myths:
Meanwhile others were discovering Johnson, and dealing with him in one
of two ways: either by giving him a criminal past before he came to the
arctic...or by romanticizing him with stylized ingredients, such as an
unhappy love affair.. .Both were attempts at justification, either of the
RCMP or of Johnson, and both were reductive. Several ballads, some
78 poems, two feature-length films, and a number of television programs
appeared, further romanticizing the Trapper, dramatizing the manhunt, and
bringing the story more and more into the realm of folklore. None of these
efforts had much influence on me. (York xi)
York's tone seems to indicate his disdain for all previous attempts to fictionalize aspects of Johnson's story, as if they should be condemned for being self-serving.
However, he openly mixes fact and fiction, and his version falls victim to the same desire to romanticize, to provide a rationale for Johnson's background and motivations, as other works. He too bends the blank slate of Johnson into something that will serve the greater thrust of his story. As York admits, he had his "own demons to exorcise" (York xii).
Another Canadian writer to probe the Johnson myth, Rudy Wiebe, wrote both a short story and later a fairly dry novel, The Mad Trapper, which cast
Johnson as a victim: a recluse who turns his back on a civilization whose violence will not leave him alone. In his "Poem of Albert Johnson," Robert Kroetsch sees
Johnson, as an ending note indicates, as a man who was "hunted to death by a small army of men" (Kroetsch 49). Similarly, the two films directly based on the
Johnson legend, Challenge to be Free and the Charles Bronson vehicle Death
Hunt, portray Johnson's violence and misanthropy as directly linked to an admirable environmentalism, a love for animals, and a desire for solitude. These portrayals all pander to sympathy in an attempt to fill the void left by the most pressing question Smith has already asked: Who was he really?
79 This was the first question I asked, as I pulled that paperback from the wire rack in Espanola, and it's the question I'm asking now, chest-deep and wading through my own reworking of the Johnson myth for the stage, I Drag My Coffin
Through the Lonesome North. This is the project I have been carrying around in my back pocket for the past seven years. My initial impulse to follow a straight historical trajectory with my play gradually gave way to a desire to depart from the bare facts and play more toward the fantastical qualities of the story. In his analysis of Brechtian epic theatre, Walter Benjamin suggests the writer should approach history as "a ballet teacher to his pupil. His first aim is to loosen her joints to the very limits of the possible" (Benjamin 8). By respecting the bare facts of the Johnson manhunt, I hope to keep the story loose enough to push the "limits of the possible" and dive into the fantasy.
If what remains is the awe at Johnson's actions and the resulting need to understand what sort of a man could be capable of these things, the factual details and characters became signposts rather than guardrails in the writing of I Drag My
Coffin. This fascination with myth and history is not new to me. I've written two other plays based on historic characters: folk musician Nick Drake, and famed aviatrix Amelia Earhart. For both projects, I completed exhaustive periods of research to get as close to possible to the "true" story. Ultimately, I found the departure into fantasy, the ability to play with metaphor, much more honest and satisfying than pretending that I could both dramatize history and maintain its authenticity. Later, after some hesitation, I made an attempt to write a biographical screenplay based on Nick Drake's life, my own concerns giving way
80 to the encouragement of a director and the kind cooperation of the late musician's estate. I have long disliked biographical films for the very reason that they operate under the pretension of telling the authoritative and final story of the subject, as if to say "watch this and you will know Johnny Cash, or Ray Charles," or whomever.
In our times, when a detailed "factual" account for any person of celebrity is a
Wikipedia search away, the desire to expose a "true" story seems to me more redundant than ever. The reality is that the writer/director/producer takes certain liberties both in the name of creating drama and also out of a conscious, or perhaps subconscious, desire to impose a meaning on the subject's life. While in writing the Nick Drake screenplay, I aspired to treat the subject as a character, and simply tell a story about this character, I was not satisfied in the end that this was as much a departure as necessary from the critical flaws I perceived in the biopic model.
In I Drag My Coffin, my intent is to root the story in as "real" a setting as possible, while simultaneously playing away from this sense of reality. Using the historical mining riot that shook the town of Estevan in 1931 to ground the character of the Constable, I felt free to use him, a fictional outsider in the North, as a device to address some of my own concerns about identity. The economic backdrop of the Depression, the prairie dustbowl forcing people away from the center, the influx of immigrants in the wake of the political upheaval of World
War I, the growing independence of Canada as represented by the Statute of
Westminster - all these conditions provide a framework for a questioning of identity in retrospect. Like York, I've scattered some historic personalities, such as Inspector Eames and the trader Blake, throughout, but these characters are
81 ultimately composites and have been placed in the stylized frame of the Western.
This has allowed me to inject grotesque and fantastical elements, to ensure that
I'm playing toward myth, not history. As the play moves farther away from civilization, we meet Father Petitot, based on a historic Oblate priest that I've dragged forward thirty years to increase the surreal timeless sense of the North.
The real Petitot was officially recognized for his efforts in expanding the Catholic influence in the Arctic, but was unofficially feared by his colleagues for his bouts of insanity, as noted by Robert Choquette in his study of the missionary movement in the Northwest: "On two occasions he tried to murder Seguin [a fellow priest] by strangling him or butchering him with an axe, in order to offer him in sacrifice for the salvation of the world, all the while screaming and howling in a totally demented state" (Choquette 64). The characters of Ishmael and Kullervo are founded in myth, but for me became vital representations of the violence inflicted on the identities of those who exist outside societal norms.
I don't wish to offer the hackneyed credo that I have remained true to the spirit of Albert Johnson's story; to me, this is too vacuous a statement to make. I don't and never will know or understand the man. What was important to me was, instead, to reflect the lasting interest in this story. What is compelling about the
"Mad Trapper" is the need to find answers, and because these answers seem eternally evasive, the questioning inevitably collapses from "Who was he?" to
"Who am I?" I don't aim to find answers to this man's identity and motivations. I want to leave him external, unidentified, as Dick North calls him, a "non-person"
(North 47). My intent became to study how the building of myth deconstructs
82 personal identity. In the words of Hall's Goodpasture, in awe of the town's legendary gunman, Blaisedell:
It is as though, through him, I can see a bit of myself immortalized, and the
others of this town, and even the whole of this western country. For how
can this be done but through those men who, because of their stature
among us, we raise still further in tall tales and legends that denote our
respect, and which are taken by the world and the generations, from us, as
standing for us? (Hall 180)
We follow the myth to find ourselves, but what is critical is that we can't help but lose ourselves in this search, because we have placed our total faith in something we have intentionally made unreachable.
The questioning of identity is just that, a process, and I don't expect to offer any epiphanies here. Much Canadian drama and criticism focuses on the question of national identity: what defines us as Canadian? Alan Filewod hits on what, to me, is a central problem with this endeavour, as he argues that "some
Canadians take an ironic pride in claiming that the recurring inability to define the state as something more than a legislative compromise may itself be the defining characteristic of Canadian nationhood" (Filewod 57). Because no one attempt has been able to distill a definition of Canadian-ness, many have proposed that the lack of an identity is in fact what defines us. This is a non-answer, and I can't say I find this a very engaging or useful debate. What was important to me in the formation of my characters is the questioning of nation, culture, race, gender and how these forces either inform or dismantle our sense of self.
83 I question my identity constantly. I don't know if this is a common thing for most people, to wonder who you are on a daily basis, but I do. 1 was born in
Sudbury, Ontario. My ancestry is half Finn, half conglomeration of Scottish, Irish and Norman ancestry. My father's family was intensely proud of its Finnish heritage, but had lost the culture except for the correct pronunciation of "sauna" and the names of certain dishes at holiday meals. My mother's side didn't know what it was. When we went to visit relatives up in Chapleau, we were the big city
Southerners; when I moved to Toronto for university, I was the hardened but dumb
Northerner; in New Brunswick, I'm the loud, self-absorbed Ontarian. Sometimes I think I'm a writer, but I feel ashamed saying this because I've been made to feel this is not a "real" job. I feel like there must be something wrong with me because for two years I sat behind a desk making a salary, and with each day I felt more of myself eroding away. Here I am, a student again, but I'm teetering on the edge of thirty. When you're growing up, it's common for everyone to talk about the potential to "be," but I'm wondering more and more when potential turns to waste.
I'm not supposed to be conflicted about my identity. I'm generic, right smack in the middle of average, an advantageous demographic. But I don't know who I am.
This void is the basis for my version of the "Mad Trapper" story. I focus on one RCMP Constable as he pursues the Trapper through the frozen North. The
Constable, in search of an identity, loses himself entirely while the Trapper, the man without any selfhood, is launched into mythic identity. The actual narrative, as such, then, becomes a fairly straightforward story about a chase: lawman pursuing criminal.
84 The genre I have worked in seemed to demand itself: the Western.
Johnson's positioning as an almost nameless loner thrusting his way through a wild, unpopulated land sounds like the opening to many classic films. 1 grew up hating Westerns, hating John Wayne and his swaggering self-possessing machismo most of all. Traditional masculinity and gender roles were not things that were valued in my home growing up, and I just can't relate to the creed of the traditional Western: "Sometimes, a man's gotta do..We were never taught how to play "Cowboys and Indians."
I came to love Western films rabidly as an adult. I don't appreciate the cookie cutter plots that are the norm, or the genre's roots in the conqueror philosophy of Western expansionism, and I still hate John Wayne, but what drew me was the undeniable mythic potential of the genre: of man (and by "man," I mean "person") rising to meet the dominating force of the frontier and the defeat or self-discovery this confrontation allows. The unapologetic optimism of the golden era of Western cinema gave way in the 60s, as many things did, to a revisionist viewpoint. In light of the wanton violence of wars such as Vietnam and the surge of the counterculture, the Revisionist genre allows for a grittier, more urban view of the frontier - one that acknowledges consequence of action. Riding off into the sunset becomes, in Sergio Leone's For a Few Dollars More {Per qualche dollaro in piit), the Man With No Name riding off into the sunset, pulling a wagon full of corpses worth thousands in bounty. The protagonist in the
Revisionist Western doesn't outwardly aspire to a classic conception of heroism and is primarily concerned with self-preservation. The Revisionist genre was
85 powered by the low-budget Westerns made in Italy during the 60s, dubbed
Spaghetti Westerns. The undoubted master of the Italian school is Sergio Leone, whose aesthetic style and philosophy would influence not just European directors but reenergize the entire Western genre in America. It is primarily from this perspective that the aesthetic of the play has evolved. The bulk oil Drag My
Coffin takes place in the period of the Johnson manhunt, 1931-32. The action is bookended by a scene set in 1967, a significant year in Canada in regards to the questioning of identity. This setting is also appropriate to provide the Revisionist context for the rest of the work - the American involvement in Vietnam was about to peak, Leone's "Dollars" trilogy had been completed, and the Western was quickly losing favour as the obsession with the frontier faded from American consciousness.
The Western encapsulates the American frontier myth, and Daniel Boone,
Davey Crockett, Jesse James and Billy the Kid embody heroic values that don't quite connect with me as a Canadian. The American frontier, the land and its native inhabitants, were tamed and trampled under the banner of Manifest Destiny.
The Canadian frontier, not the West but the Northwest, unfolded through fundamentally different circumstances. Hugh A. Dempsey notes in his study of the Canadian cowboy that
Here, the law preceded settlement, The North-West Mounted Police
arriving while the territory was still controlled by Indians and traders. By
the time the ranching industry moved northward across the international
border, the principle of Queen's justice had taken hold and virtually
86 everyone accepted it. There was no need for people to make or enforce
their own laws.. .This is not to say the Canadian West was dull. It wasn't;
it simply lacked the violence of the American West. (Dempsey 104)
Dempsey's argument doesn't deny that the ultimate goal, to exploit and possess the land, was the same, but a more subtle, "lawful" invasion of the frontier and displacement of the native inhabitants could be said to have been practiced. While in the traditional Western, the hero battles the "savage" wilderness, represented by awesome landscapes, vicious animals, and murderous natives, the North offers an even more extreme environment. As Sherrill Grace discusses in her collection of
Northern drama, for many southern Canadians this extremity presents itself in fairly stereotyped terms of
Adventure, and of physical and moral challenge... It is also viewed as a
place of spiritual beauty, silence, even transcendence, and of terror - a
place of isolation, madness, and death. To the southern mind, the North is
a paradox: it is at once empty - with nothing but lakes, rivers, forests,
muskeg, taiga, tundra, and ice - and full - full of exotic peoples, caribou,
mineral riches, unsolved mysteries, and ghosts. (Grace xi)
Of course, these environmental conditions exist, but to see the North solely in terms of the most extreme is hopelessly ignorant. The North offers as much variety as any other geographic landscape, including blisteringly hot summer days and, as Farley Mowat puts it, "winter blizzards on the prairies can match, in ferocity if not intensity, the worst weather the North produces" (Mowat 26).
87 The landscape of the frontier dominates the Western myth; in the imagining it is the only thing that can possibly be "larger" than man. In America, the frontier has been conquered and can only exist in the present as myth. In
Canada, our frontier has resisted settlement and in turn been rejected, and thus still lives as a reality hanging over us. As Grace observes, the North is something conceptual that "many southern Canadians fear and dread...and yet [they] cannot live without it because...it is there.. .and here" (Grace xi). Although the
Territories seem to epitomize our sense of the North, nearly every province in
Canada bends up toward the Arctic Circle and the concept is impossible to escape.
If in the traditional Western the landscape is seen as a prize to be conquered or a chance at renewal, in Revisionist works such as Leone's films or Jodorowsky's El
Topo the landscape becomes a wasteland reflecting the encroachment of civilization on the natural world. One of the classic Western settings is the desert, becoming especially prominent in the Revisionist mode as "a suitable backdrop for a world based on brutality, apathy, and callousness" (Frayling 188). The winter tundra of the Mackenzie Delta through which Johnson fled seems like the perfect
Northern parallel to the frontier quality of the desert.
In the play, the Constable's pursuit of the Trapper begins in Edmonton and moves further and further north: a movement from civilization into the wild. Here
I am obviously influenced by Conrad's Heart of Darkness and Coppola's film
Apocalypse Now, in which characters follow a river in pursuit of another man.
The river comes to represent a movement away from civilization into the savagery, its source obscuring the border between sanity and madness. But while in both
88 these works, Kurtz, the pursued man, is both stationary and has a fairly stable identity, Johnson is on the run and unknown - a fading subject. While part of my endeavour includes showing the tension between history and myth, some of the realities of the pursuit do place my play in the traditional frame of the North as a merciless landscape. Especially as the characters move from civilization into a more complete immersion in the landscape, I'm trying to show less and less of a connection to reality. As in Conrad's work, the natural landscape reflects a psychological one.
In the context of a featureless landscape, what takes focus is character. In his study of the Western genre, Lee Clark Mitchell notes that in Leone's films, the
"implication for character is that men simply fall back on themselves.. .since the landscape no longer preaches, enforces, provides clues, or otherwise resonates with moral significance" (Mitchell 231). Leone popularized the use of extreme close-ups on faces and eyes. While John Ford focused his lens on the impressive natural formations of Monument Valley, Leone used faces as his geography - lined and cracked "facescapes" that would fill the entire frame. During the epic
Once Upon a Time in the West, Leone described the face of star Charles Bronson as "the face of destiny.. .a sort of granite block, impenetrable, but scarred by life"
(Frayling 145). Clint Eastwood was treated similarly in the "Dollars" trilogy of films: both men are nameless with "impenetrable" faces that betray no emotion.
This "Man With No Name" character would dominate the Revisionist Western, seeming to appear from out of nowhere, speak almost solely through action and disappear back into the bleak landscape at the end. Immediately, this makes me
89 think of Albert Johnson. Like Eastwood's classic character who, as Mitchell puts it, is "rendered anonymous—not simply his lack of a name but his lack of a past or of future intentions, of glib conversation or ready emotion, of facial expression altogether" (Mitchell 231), Johnson is a blank slate, or a block of granite. Through their awe-inspiring actions, the Man With No Name and Johnson attain mythic identity, while the real "hero" of I Drag My Coffin becomes a block of granite himself.
Inspired by the ambiguously moral characters that populate Leone's films,
I have attempted to base my characters in the tradition while subverting the stereotype in order to unbalance expectations about identity. The Constable is our protagonist, the time-honoured lawman in a lawless land. He is positioned in the classic frame as described by Rita Parks in her study of the Western archetype:
Tradition paints the Western hero as, first and possibly foremost, a
loner.. .He is a man in the middle—poised between savagery and
civilization...There is something mysterious and sad about this man; there
are hints of a tragic past and forebodings of an ominous future. He seems
merely to be resting momentarily in the present, poised between what has
happened to make him what he is and what will happen because of what he
is. (Parks 57-58)
It is important to position the Constable in this fashion, to teeter him on the brink where he may either succeed or fail. However, while the traditional hero wears the white hat and is the fastest draw, the Constable is a reluctant and paralyzed man, incapable of action or judgment. During a mining riot in Estevan, Saskatchewan,
90 he was ordered to fire on unarmed protestors, leaving him disillusioned about the oaths he has taken as an officer of the RCMP. As his grasp on civilization slackens - losing his fellow officers, his fiancee, and even his clothing - his unwilling participation in the Johnson manhunt slowly becomes the sole focus informing his identity. The enigma of the Trapper culminates in a confrontation between the two men in the foothills of the Richardson Mountains. The Constable has become a non-person, while the Trapper has grown in stature and is poised, by way of his imminent escape, to become infamous as the man who fooled the
RCMP. As the Constable shoots the Trapper, he is making a desperate attempt to regain a sense of self, but, in fact, the action commits the Trapper wholly to mythology and obliterates the Constable's own chance at grace and identity. The scene that follows, the Constable dragging the Trapper's coffin back through the wilderness, echoes a tall tale about the real Arthur Nelson, who was said to have dragged his wife's body with him until the ground thawed so he could bury her
(North 47). It also pays tribute to Sergio Corbucci's Django, in which the title character drags a coffin through most of the film only to pull a Gatling gun from it in the climactic battle. The real significance here, for me, is obviously the weight of the guilt that the Constable drags with him through the decades of his life. It also offers the opportunity to recreate on stage the only recognizable image of
Albert Johnson, that of him in death.
The Revisionist Western supplanted the good/bad dichotomy of the traditional Western with a triangular relationship of three lead characters. Sergio
Leone's films usually featured this dynamic, most famously in The Good, The
91 Bad, and the Ugly (II buono, il brutto, il cattivo). This third element, the "Ugly," represented by the character of Tuco, introduces the grotesque into the relationship. The grotesque is an area of contradiction - in which comedy becomes black and good mingles with bad. This third element offsets the traditional black-hat/white-hat rivalry, and as Tuco plays both sides, providing a foil for both Blondie (the "Good") and Angel Eyes (the "Bad"), it becomes apparent that none of these characters is either wholly good or bad. In I Drag My
Coffin, the Trapper and the Constable are joined from the opening scene as fatal adversaries; even their names, Johnson and Jonnson, are generic and similar.
Through the manhunt, I have attempted to show more and more that there is a point where these characters operate almost as two halves of the same nameless individual. It is ultimately implied that the Constable is, in fact, tracking himself in his search for an identity. If we consider these two men as a closed circuit, then
Kullervo, the Finnish woodsman, and Ishmael, the Metis companion, complete the triangular relationship.
The Finnish epic poem The Kalevala was a major influence in the conception of this play. Compiled by Elias Lonnrot in the mid 19th century, the work is a network of rural folk songs and spoken poetry that tell of extraordinary feats by extraordinary characters in a surreal landscape. The sense of nationhood stirred by this epic is now considered one of the nationalistic forces that led to
Finland's independence from Russia in 1917. One of the major characters in The
Kalevala is Kullervo, a brash and headstrong man whose troubled youth leads him to an obsessive desire for revenge. This path eventually dooms his entire family
92 and forces him to throw himself upon his sword. In / Drag My Coffin, Kullervo, like his counterpart in Lonnrot's epic, is a product of an unstable upbringing. He is born into a country oppressed by a crumbing Russian empire and then finds his life torn apart by a civil war. As supporters of the losing "Red" party, backed by
Bolshevist Russia, his family forfeits its land and is condemned to an internment camp. Without a place in his own country, he follows the promise of work and freedom to Canada, only to find himself labeled an undesirable for his socialist beliefs. Kullervo retreats into the North, a space that the poet Robert Service found could welcome the "men that don't fit in." When the Constable meets him,
Kullervo has turned to violent ways, beating others the way he feels life has beaten him. When Inspector Eames is killed by the Trapper, Kullervo loses his last link to a "lawful" way of life, turning completely to rage and greed. The Trapper becomes the focus for these dark feelings - someone to punish and an avenue for salvation - and as in the case of the hero from the epic, it this single-mindedness that finally leads to Kullervo's death. Jean Sibelius's Jager March (Jaakarimarssi) is sung or hummed throughout by Kullervo, serving as a reminder of the wars he has survived and also declaring a need to avenge the mythic Kullervo's death.
All of the characters suffer from some form of disassociation from the self, but for me, Ishmael embodies the most critical and tragic form of this identity crisis. If the Constable can be said to have lost his sense of self, then Ishmael has had hers ripped from her. Ishmael's mother, a member of the Crow nation, died of disease when her daughter was a baby, and Ishmael was subsequently abandoned by her White father. She was taken from her adopted Cree family and moved far
93 from home to a residential school. There she was forced to forget both her mother's and her adopted heritage and language. Her Crow name is also taken from her and she assumes the name of the narrator of Moby Dick, himself a person limited to the role of observer, without a firm identity or agency. The name also indicates her loss of womanhood and a connection to her sexuality. She is distanced from any conception of gender: when she and the Constable strip off their clothes to treat his hypothermia after he falls through the ice, their nakedness is a practical solution for her, with no sexual overtones. She faces discrimination in Winnipeg for not being White, but she also no longer belongs on the reserve.
She comes to the North following and intending to kill a man named Johnson, who raped her adopted sister. The Constable tries to pigeonhole her as the "Wise
Indian," assuming that she has an intuitive connection to the land and an ability to track. However, Ishmael proves herself to be even more ignorant than him: her past has been stolen from her, leaving her incapable of coping in either the wilderness of her ancestors or her adopted city.
In the play, speech and language are markers signifying the loss of self.
For the Constable, Kullervo and Ishmael, English is not the language they were born into. Kullervo finds himself at times incapable of expressing himself properly. His use of Finn is limited to cursing, his native tongue only useful in its expression of his rage. Approaching death, he lapses entirely into Finn, no longer able to connect with the Constable. Ishmael was born speaking Crow, a Siouan dialect, which gave way to the Cree of her adopted family. Under Roman Catholic instruction at the Residential School she is disciplined for using her native tongue
94 and forced to learn French. In Winnipeg, she learns English in her boarding house, and, finally, when the Constable meets her she speaks a broken language, representative of her shattered persona. The Trapper, as the epitome of the non- person, is incapable of communication; he never utters a word, but he controls the action through music.
Each of the four major characters is accompanied by a musical theme. It is a common device in opera, most famously in the work of Wagner, to introduce characters with a piece of music called a leitmotiv. Ennio Morricone, the great composer and collaborator on Sergio Leone's films, used this technique to great effect throughout his work. In Once Upon a Time in the West, each of the main characters has his or her own distinctive theme played by a different instrument:
"each character has his own 'insignia' (plucked banjo for Cheyenne, harmonica wail for the Man, electronic whine or amplified guitar for Frank), and each main theme in the film has a direct musical inspiration" (Frayling 203). Morricone is also famous for his use of non-traditional instrumentation and treating the human voice as accompaniment. Inspired by this, the musical themes that introduce the characters oil Drag My Coffin grow distinctly throughout the play. The instrumentation is connected to the individual: a playful but haunting jaw harp for the Trapper, the traditional Finnish lyre for Kullervo, the kitchen party rhythm of the spoons for Ishmael, and the sombre but authoritative bugle for the Constable.
The themes also signify which character is controlling a certain scene. The
Trapper's jaw harp is linked with him from the opening and acts at times as his ghostly presence. The act of playing music also features dramatically: Kullervo
95 getting festive with his lyre during the Christmas party, the Trapper's harp revealing his location to his pursuers, Ishmael's spoons providing a rhythm for the march. When the Constable finally confronts the Trapper in the climax, the four themes are tied together, momentarily linking all these disjointed identities into one overlapping pattern.
This "Showdown" is a key component of Western mythology. The tradition of the back to back, walk ten paces, fair fight was subverted in Leone's films, which almost all feature a final circular duel: "Gunfighters no longer stride towards each other down the main streets.. .but instead face their destiny in a corrida, set within a vast graveyard: the linear confrontation has been redefined as the circular" (Frayling 188). Echoing the environment of the corrida, the bullfight, the emphasis is on tension and the possibility of violence at any moment.
Unlike Sam Peckinpah, who was concerned with each gruesome detail of the actual act of violence, Leone sought to prolong the moment before the act. In the climactic face-off between the three characters of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,
Leone focused the camera on the eyes, hands, and weapons, the music swelling, stretching the moment to the point of complete agony. The actual violence that follows is brief, direct and inevitable. The final confrontation in I Drag My Coffin takes place in this corrida environment, a frozen pond at the base of the mountains. The bullring-like setting emphasizes the circular relationship of life and death and links the Constable to the Trapper more strongly than ever. While the moment before is important, the actual act of violence gains more prominence
96 as well. The shooting must push the limits of reason because the Constable is destroying himself in the act.
Sound and music also create action on stage. In several of Leone's films, flashbacks feature prominently. In Once Upon a Time in the West, Harmonica is haunted by a strange vision of a man walking through a desert, another hanging from a rope. The vision is repeated several times throughout the film, each cycle bringing us closer to the complete story: the hanged man is Harmonica's brother and the walking man is who he has come to kill. In I Drag My Coffin, the
Constable is plagued by a returning vision of the riot in Estevan: the horror at the violence he was obliged to perform and his guilt over his paralysis. In Leone's film, Harmonica's visions are ignited when he plays the instrument from which he gets his name, and eventually we learn the harmonica is a critical piece of the memory. Similarly, the Constable's flashbacks are always preceded by the
Trapper's jaw harp, as if the Trapper has some power over him. The same sequence of sounds - marching feet, shouting, gunshots - accompanies each cycle of the vision, providing a non-instrumental soundscape. In some ways, the entire play is a flashback controlled by the Trapper: we see in the bookends that the
Constable is a shell of the vibrant man who pursues Johnson throughout the play.
Here he is an old, broken man forced to relive the failures of his past.
I'm a firm believer that the written script should not endeavour to solve the staging. Having worked with designers, I recognize how valuable interpretation can be in bringing a script to the stage. For this reason, I intentionally avoid a discussion of the stage as much as possible in my written directions, instead trying
97 to discuss the scenes in terms of environment and action alone. After more than a decade working in Canadian amateur and professional theatre, I know too well the grim realities of trying to find a willing stage for new work. I am a passionate self-producer and am all too familiar with working with low or even no budgets.
My intent was that the script could benefit from both a basic and an elaborate concept of staging. In its barest form, I Drag My Coffin could be performed with four actors. The bleakness of the landscape lends itself to little or no set elements, and props and costumes can also be kept fairly minimal. The critical technical elements are the lighting and sound design.
Choreography of movement and sound is vital in the opening section, as the Trapper is "shot back to life." This scene has obviously been strongly influenced by the introductory sequence of Once Upon a Time in the West, during which three men come to meet a train. The ensuing twenty minutes builds the tension of their waiting primarily through ambient sound: a fly buzzing, dripping water, the moan of a windmill. Initially, I thought to fall back on the safety of including long monologues by the Constable to provide some exposition at the start, but I have opted as much as possible to explore storytelling through action alone.
Scene transitions are intended to occur smoothly, without blackouts except where indicated for effect. In keeping with the memory the action represents, characters should be able to walk seamlessly from one area of the stage into another, introduced by lighting or the appropriate theme. Any set pieces should be able to slide in and out of position as necessary.
98 The aesthetic of Western cinema has been a great influence on the conception of this project, specifically the films of Sergio Leone. Ideally, a proscenium stage would be used. The picture frame quality of the proscenium suggests the letterbox environment of cinema, and Leone was very conscious of this in his films, setting up many shots featuring the rectangular frame as a device.
The mountainous backdrop discussed in the script also represents the rear of this frame. The growing outline of these mountains represents the possibility of the
Trapper's escape and their size implies the inevitable showdown to come. The jaggedness of the peaks, described as teeth, also emphasizes the Constable's desire to consume the Trapper's identity.
In the script, I indicate in some scenes that the Trapper appears on a ledge, looking down on the action. In reality, Johnson's pursuers were in awe of his survival techniques, which far surpassed their own physical abilities. When spying on one of Johnson's camps, members of the RCMP posse reported hearing the hunted man singing. In spite of the extreme pressure of the pursuit and the environment, Johnson almost seemed to be toying with his pursuers. Whether or not the ledge element is included, the Trapper should be a constant overbearing presence throughout the performance, one that suggests not just an observer but a puppeteer.
One of the primary qualities of the play is the journey. These are characters travelling through a landscape, so it becomes necessary to represent this transition. I say represent, because the journey is as much psychological as physical. I have been careful to introduce the movement toward the surreal right
99 off the top and continually cycle toward the surreal throughout the script.
Therefore, I don't intend that the movement through the space should be handled literally. The music during these sequences, such as the Constable's trek dragging the coffin at the end, tells us of the extra dimension here and the constant reminder of rhythm suggests a march.
During the manhunt in the winter of 1932, rumours persisted among the people of the Mackenzie Delta that Albert Johnson was not a man, but a supernatural force. His pursuers could not fathom how he was able to always stay one step ahead of them; they joked that he could be in one place in one moment and then appear fifty miles away the next. What is known about Johnson defies belief, and even the facts sound like a myth. Why the need for embellishment?
When the American Western was dying out in the 60s, the Italian filmmakers stepped in and reinvigorated it. Why would a country without a frontier mythology of its own, without cowboys or any of the traditional ingredients of the
West care about the survival of the genre? Italian writer Alberto Moravia suggests that "the Italian western was born not from ancestral memory but from the instinct of filmmakers who, when they were young, were head over heels in love with the
American Western. In other words, the Hollywood Western was born from a myth, the Italian one was born from a myth about a myth" (Frayling 218).
The story of Albert Johnson is already a myth, but the enigma that surrounds him will not allow his body to rest. He's been written about in every creative medium, speculated over, lied about, dug up, cut up and buried again.
The pretense is that we are concerned with truth—who was he really?—but the
100 reality is that we are simply layering myth upon myth. The writing of I Drag My
Coffin brought me to the realization that while mythmaking generates a story greater than fact may allow, it is a process of thievery. Yes, myth offers inspiration, an ideal to aspire toward, but it also defies the limitations of the average, the generic. In the face of myth, the self flakes away to nothing, and the myth thrives.
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107 CURRICULUM VITAE
Matthew Ryan Heiti
Education Bachelor of Arts (Theatre: Acting, Ryerson University, 2004)
Master of Arts candidate (English: Creative Writing, University of New Brunswick, projected 2010)
Publications 2000 - "Just Beyond the Trees" - one-act play, Dramatics Magazine (October): 53-61.
2008 - "Normando" - poetic work, as the "Castro-Picasso Quartet", Rampike Magazine (V. 16, 2): 38-40.
2010 - "Snakeskin Boots" - short story, Grain Magazine (Winter): 19-24.
Performances 2008 - Red Barn - full-length play, commissioned by Playwrights' Theatre Centre in Vancouver and a reading staged as part of their New Play Festival (June 2008).
2008 - disperare - one-act play, winner of Fringe Toronto's 24-hour playwriting competition, performed on the final night of the festival (July 2008).
2009 - The Hanged Men - one-act play, public reading as part of NotaBle Acts Theatre Festival in Fredericton, NB (August 2009).
2009 - The Nick Drake Project - full-length play, produced by Picture Box Theatre Company for Summerworks Theatre Festival in Toronto (August 2009).
2010 -Aviatrix - one-act play selected for Lunchbox Theatre's Stage One Play Festival. Public reading in Calgary (June 2010).
Film 2009 - Son of the Sunshine - feature-length screenplay, co-written with Ryan Ward and produced by Heart Shaped Movies. Debuted at Slamdance and screened at major film festivals across North America and Europe.