Grandpa, the musher, Marbles, Summer, Ski Mask and I
finished lunch, when I blurted out, “Who knows anything about magic corn?” The
entire restaurant went silent. Dozens of moon faced diners turned to look my
way.
“What’d I say?” I asked my group.
“Shhh,” responded Grandpa, “taboo,” as he interrupted his
slurping.
“Get ya shot,” said the musher. “Never obvious who’s here,
watching, listening.” He began to whisper, “The war, ya know. Americans.
Canadians. Alaskans. Tlingits. Russians . . .”
I leaned forward, “Spies?”
“Everywhere,” the musher whispered. “It’s cracked ice in
here.”
“I see.”
“I’d like some more pancakes,” demanded Marbles. “Summer,
Ski Mask—let’s load up!”
When the three of us were alone, I asked the musher whether
he’d take me to the magic corn, thinking all along that it must be some kind of
acronym. The closest I could come and still use all the letters was
C-o-m-i-c R-a-n-g. But what did that
mean? A comic rang something? A bell? A warning bell? What else would ring? I
wondered. And who was the comic?
“After coffee,” he said.
“Good coffee . . .” said Grandpa. “Good coffee . . . hot . .
. like tall one.”
“You mean Marbles?” I asked.
“Marble is strong,” said Grandpa, “and beautiful, with
veins—like forever frozen spirits--where our ancient ancestors deep within the
earth mingled millions of years ago . . . Mrs. wouldn’t like me saying this.”
Grandpa’s eyes filled with a dark, faraway look; one eye teared up with a
yellowish ooze.
“No kiddin’,” said the musher. “You’re getting too frisky,
Gramps.”
Grandpa slammed his coffee cup down on the table. “Hmmppphhh!” Coffee splattered on
my pancakes and on his own pants. “How many times have I told you not to call
me that?” He got up for a refill, muttering “Dark horses!”
*** ***
***
For much of the afternoon, we headed east on the dog sleds,
our moods anxious and quiet, until the sun stretched our shadows out over the
huskies. Occasional signs dotted the trail, warning us that we had better have
a good reason for crossing into this land. One sign said, “Amerkins GO hom!”
Another one, a quarter of a mile down the path, added, “Dint WE jis tell U—GO
hom!”
“What’s with the signs?” I asked the musher. “Aren’t we
still in Alaska?”
“Dude, don’t know,” said the musher, “but they didn’t learn
how to spell in Canada, eh?”
The next sign turned out to be the last one we would see. It
simply said, “U ben Warn’t.”
Something was going to happen. I could feel it. Up ahead, a looming shadow seemed to get lost
in the trees. The largest totem pole I had ever seen. On the top was a giant
head with snakes and lizards for hair. It had angry eyes and fangs, seemingly
dripping with the blood of wolves and polar bears. Actual caribou bones dangled
from between its teeth. Its arms were outstretched, one wielding a large knife
and the other, readying a gigantic hatchet for our decapitation.
“What do you make of it?” I asked the musher.
“Nice carving,” he said. “Pride of workmanship. Maybe trying
too hard to scare us off. Does more to raise curiosity . . . If Gramps were
here, he’d be proud, probably want to stop and polish it . . . maybe even dance
around it, if his arthritis isn’t acting up too bad.”
To me, it was an imposing scarecrow swept by ice crystals
and designed to scare away outsiders, human outsiders, to give them one final
warning to either stay away or face the consequences of proceeding. A plaque at
the bottom of the totem pole held the following message:
“Children will read about your
foolishness in history books, and they will shake their heads in disbelief and
disgust. They will say, ‘Even my five year old sister would know better.’”
My stomach was growing queasy. A gas bubble the size of a
basketball was swelling my lower intestines. Maybe it was time to turn around.
Maybe nothing good would become of this mission. I thought about my
intermediate training manual. A passage from it seemed relevant:
“Don’t go into a mission with an
upset stomach. It could develop into an embarrassing situation, and no hero in
any history book was ever glorified or even
remembered fondly while having his pants filled from a nervous stomach. Bottom Line: Heroes have clean
underwear.”
(Below is a sketch
for documentation in my report. Lines are somewhat poorly drawn due to my
nervous condition. Ravens had also gathered in larger numbers as I drew the
sketch. Many swooped at the totem pole’s head. A few had landed on the hatchet.
They “HAWWWED” the whole time. Note: I didn’t draw the ravens because I’m not
good at drawing birds.)
For some reason, the musher wanted me to take his picture
with the totem pole. He posed, bending backward, his arms crossed above his
head, his expression one of tremendous horror on his face. “Thanks, dude,” he
laughed. “My girlfriend will love this!”
*** ***
***
Three hours later we approached a glowing yellow light from
the east. I no longer knew whether we were in Alaska, America, or Canada. But I
suspected that we were coming upon an encampment.
The dog sleds slowed down. Their barking turned to wheezing.
They were now approaching the light cautiously. Some whined. Some growled.
Their tails stopped wagging.
All I knew was that the glow was becoming brighter. Was it a
trap? I wondered. Should we stop? Should someone scout ahead? But before I
could ask, we had already come upon it. And there it was. We had reached our
destination. Unbelievable. Rolling hills bathed in a warm yellow light.
Rustling in the wind. Lifelike. But not alive. Emitting a low hum. We had found
the magic corn.
*** ***
***
We were ecstatic. The mushers yelped in unison. Their dogs
cried along. Only two things buffered a bit of the glow from our moods. One, a
question: Now what were we to do? And two: A sight unsettled me. As I walked
along the border of the corn, I found dead crows littered on the ground, little
black blemishes among the glowing gold. Their eyes were crossed, and their
beaks were stuck in a wide open position, as if they had tried to regurgitate a
bad meal. One crow was banded. Carefully, I removed the band and unrolled a
scroll-like piece of parchment. On it said, “See what happens.” I looked back
at the others, oblivious to my discovery and the next step of my mission: This
corn was evil. Whoever planted it here was evil. My duty was to destroy it.
Still, how would I explain that corn was evil? I pressed the crow’s beak
together to give it a dignified look and then tried to close the eyes, but they
were frozen solid like a marble statue. I scooped out a little hole in the snow
and gave it a proper burial, feeling a little guilty that I wouldn’t have time
to bury the dozens of other crows that lay every which way on the ground.
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