feel you have to do. That’s all any of us can do.” Then the elder got up and walked away to chat with someone else.
“Whatever,” Anderson mumbled and ate the rest of the soup by himself.
The next morning, as the very first step in his project, he asked one of the men in the village to show him how to build a canoe. The native walked with Anderson to the forest so he could show him which trees made for good sailing, then walked with him to the existing canoes to point out how they were constructed. When the man did not know the English word for what he wanted to say and Anderson did not know the Mi’kmaq word, the native would use a combination of hand gestures and sound effects to demonstrate various things such as angled chopping and how to make an oar.
Even with the tools the Mi’kmaq let him borrow, it took Anderson two days just to chop down one tree. Each time he wound back with the axe and swung with all of his might, the blade barely left a mark on the giant hemlock.
He was sure the tribe would let him borrow one of their canoes if he asked, but he didn’t want to put them in that situation. He would need it for long stretches of time, and it wasn’t fair to use the tribe’s limited resources for a venture that went against their sacred beliefs regarding the land.
Once the tree was down, he had to give in and ask for help for the first time. It took a group of eight of the older boys to help him drag the tree trunk closer to the shore, where he would chop away the branches and start to form the actual vessel.
Every step of the process took longer and was more difficult than he thought it would be. It took two months to make a good canoe. It took a week just to make a good oar.
It took another year to make the levers and pulleys he would need. He asked one of the men in the village, a man who specialized in making jewelry, if he could forge something out of metal from one of Anderson’s designs.
“What is it?” the man said, looking at the sketch.
Anderson looked at the drawing and said, “People where I come from call it a block and tackle.”
Once the canoe was done, he dragged it into the bay’s cold water just to make sure it wouldn’t sink.
“What am I doing?” he said when he started shivering in the frigid water. No one was around to provide an answer. Benio hadn’t visited the entire time he had worked at constructing the canoe.
But somewhere out there, his wife and son were going on with their lives. They were eating their first and last meal of each day together. They were watching television together. At least he liked to think they were. Maybe the Tyranny’s men had shown up and dragged them away as a message to everyone else. And even if they were alive, would they know that none of the things that were said about him on television were true, that he wasn’t a radical or a traitor? When the people on television were nothing but a sounding block for the Tyranny, paid to praise everything the Tyranny did and ostracize everyone who would question them, it was easy to forget who the real traitors were.
Each time the people on the news said Anderson and the others like him had all betrayed their country, it would be up to his wife to whisper to their boy, “Standing up to injustice is never wrong, no matter how many people try to tell you it is, no matter what reason they give.”
But even if the Tyranny hadn’t dragged her away to one of its prisons, maybe she still wouldn’t defend him to their son when these things were said about him on the news. After all, if she did, the Tyranny would be listening and would hear that she was dissenting, and that would be all the reason it would need to ensure their son grew up without either parent.
“Daddy is a radical!” Carter would say after seeing the men in fancy suits say the same thing on television and all Debbie would be able to do would be to groan and keep silent or else never turn on the television in the first
“Whatever,” Anderson mumbled and ate the rest of the soup by himself.
The next morning, as the very first step in his project, he asked one of the men in the village to show him how to build a canoe. The native walked with Anderson to the forest so he could show him which trees made for good sailing, then walked with him to the existing canoes to point out how they were constructed. When the man did not know the English word for what he wanted to say and Anderson did not know the Mi’kmaq word, the native would use a combination of hand gestures and sound effects to demonstrate various things such as angled chopping and how to make an oar.
Even with the tools the Mi’kmaq let him borrow, it took Anderson two days just to chop down one tree. Each time he wound back with the axe and swung with all of his might, the blade barely left a mark on the giant hemlock.
He was sure the tribe would let him borrow one of their canoes if he asked, but he didn’t want to put them in that situation. He would need it for long stretches of time, and it wasn’t fair to use the tribe’s limited resources for a venture that went against their sacred beliefs regarding the land.
Once the tree was down, he had to give in and ask for help for the first time. It took a group of eight of the older boys to help him drag the tree trunk closer to the shore, where he would chop away the branches and start to form the actual vessel.
Every step of the process took longer and was more difficult than he thought it would be. It took two months to make a good canoe. It took a week just to make a good oar.
It took another year to make the levers and pulleys he would need. He asked one of the men in the village, a man who specialized in making jewelry, if he could forge something out of metal from one of Anderson’s designs.
“What is it?” the man said, looking at the sketch.
Anderson looked at the drawing and said, “People where I come from call it a block and tackle.”
Once the canoe was done, he dragged it into the bay’s cold water just to make sure it wouldn’t sink.
“What am I doing?” he said when he started shivering in the frigid water. No one was around to provide an answer. Benio hadn’t visited the entire time he had worked at constructing the canoe.
But somewhere out there, his wife and son were going on with their lives. They were eating their first and last meal of each day together. They were watching television together. At least he liked to think they were. Maybe the Tyranny’s men had shown up and dragged them away as a message to everyone else. And even if they were alive, would they know that none of the things that were said about him on television were true, that he wasn’t a radical or a traitor? When the people on television were nothing but a sounding block for the Tyranny, paid to praise everything the Tyranny did and ostracize everyone who would question them, it was easy to forget who the real traitors were.
Each time the people on the news said Anderson and the others like him had all betrayed their country, it would be up to his wife to whisper to their boy, “Standing up to injustice is never wrong, no matter how many people try to tell you it is, no matter what reason they give.”
But even if the Tyranny hadn’t dragged her away to one of its prisons, maybe she still wouldn’t defend him to their son when these things were said about him on the news. After all, if she did, the Tyranny would be listening and would hear that she was dissenting, and that would be all the reason it would need to ensure their son grew up without either parent.
“Daddy is a radical!” Carter would say after seeing the men in fancy suits say the same thing on television and all Debbie would be able to do would be to groan and keep silent or else never turn on the television in the first
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