I Drag My Coffin Through the Lonesome North
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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 Published Heritage Direction du 1+1 Branch Patrimoine de I'edition 395 Wellington Street 395, rue Wellington Ottawa ON K1A0N4 Ottawa ON K1A 0N4 Canada Canada Your file Votre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-87645-9 Our file Notre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-87645-9 NOTICE: AVIS: The author has granted a non L'auteur a accorde une licence non exclusive exclusive license allowing Library and permettant a la Bibliotheque et Archives Archives Canada to reproduce, Canada de reproduire, publier, archiver, publish, archive, preserve, conserve, sauvegarder, conserver, transmettre au public communicate to the public by par telecommunication ou par I'lnternet, preter, telecommunication or on the Internet, distribuer et vendre des theses partout dans le loan, distrbute and sell theses monde, a des fins commerciales ou autres, sur worldwide, for commercial or non support microforme, papier, electronique et/ou commercial purposes, in microform, autres formats. paper, electronic and/or any other formats. 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Canada "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.