In the Upper Country by Kai Thomas

Author:Kai Thomas [Thomas, Kai]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Canada
Published: 2023-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

Young Masters,

I write with respect for your recently deceased father whom I served without a day of faltering these eleven years. Please give my greetings to your dear mother and sisters. If they enquire, I am in good health, and doing very well. I sit on a mount and hold a rifle, to keep the good citizens of Detroit safe at night.

Your humble servant,

Chiron Stock

One night, in my new appointment, I had an encounter that roused the spark of boldness in me. I was patrolling near the shore of the Detroit River, and I heard a bullfrog call that wasn’t no bullfrog at all.

I drew my rifle from the sheath and dismounted and crouched behind a stump, scouring the trees in the direction of the call. The horse I rode, Sampson, was a strong beast but not smart. He snuffed at me and bent to chomp around his bit, on the riverside grasses. I looked into the bush, but all I saw was the dark sway of willows. I was near the river by the southern outskirts, and I could hear the lap of water on the shore.

“This is Officer Stock of the Detroit militia!” said I to the willows. “Show yourself,” I muttered, more to the barrel of my rifle than to anything else, for by this time I had been in enough skirmishes to tell that a man that would neither present himself nor flee was ready for a fight.

A voice came from the trees: “I heard tell of your new appointment, Chiron,” it said. The words were muffled by the bush and the breeze from the river, but it seemed to me the speaker was smiling.

I lowered my rifle, listening close to the dark under the swaying willows.

“Who goes there?” I asked.

“An old associate,” said the voice.

And with that, a figure in full buckskin stepped from behind the curtain of willow limbs, arms outstretched in surrender. As he came nearer I saw and recognized the shape of his dark face, struggling to keep a frown.

“Well, I’ll be,” said I, and rose and walked on toward him, picking up Sampson’s bridle and ignoring the stubborn tug.

I met the man under the dark of the swaying willow branches. We regarded one another a moment there, under weak starlight.

“It’s damn good to see you, my brother,” I said, and we embraced.

His name was John, and his is a spirit very dear to my own. He was an Indian I had met at a Three Fires Council one evening on a green isthmus of Walpole Island. I had often accompanied Alexander on business and was quite used to blending into the background and tending to the horses if there were any. However, on this occasion, the moment I arrived John greeted me and throughout that council conferred with me, translating where I did not understand, muttering his own thoughts on the discussion, and posing questions to me in a hushed tone. I didn’t have much to say, but I recall thinking

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