Kingfisher Cross

By Murray Pura

LIFE HAPPENS   LOVE HAPPENS   GRACE HAPPENS

There is a great mix of lives here - the Schlabach Amish, the English, immigration from Scandinavia, Europe and Asia. No different than the rest of the world, really. In all, Kingfisher Cross has just under five thousand souls, each of them unique, as souls everywhere are unique, all in their own unique family worlds and realities.

 Life happens. Love happens. Grace happens. Miracles happen. Except, I think, there is more peace, more kindness, more heart in Kingfisher Cross. From the beginning, people have found blessing here. They still do, regardless of the challenges they face and whatever sufferings they may endure. 

Closer to the Great Lakes, the waters remain turbulent even after so many thousands of years. But nearer to Kingfisher Cross, they are smooth and calm, if swift. They do not strike fear or awe in the heart. They grant a conflicted soul serenity. clarity and strength. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MillerWords, LLC
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215967331

Murray Pura

Murray Pura’s novel The Sunflower Season won Best Contemporary Romance (Word Awards, Toronto, 2022) while previously, The White Birds of Morning was Historical Novel of the Year (Word Awards, Toronto, 2012). Far on the Ringing Plains won the Hemingway Award for WW2 Fiction (2022) and its sequel, The Scepter and the Isle, was shortlisted for the same award (both with Patrick Craig). Murray has been a finalist for the Dartmouth Book Award, The John Spencer Hill Literary Award, and the Kobzar Literary Award. He lives in southwestern Alberta.

Book preview

THE BEAUTIFUL PLACE

First it was the rapids. Water that boiled over, lake water that ran fast and white between one huge land mass and another. Then the Lakota came to the whitewater. After the Lakota, the Ojibwe, the Chippewa. Then the French Jesuits. The French Canadians and the fur trade. The Ottawa tribe and the Métis, the voyageurs. The Scots and Irish and Germans. The Finns. Macedonians. Dutch. We were under French colonial rule and British colonial rule.

But after the 1812 War, there was a new border between Michigan and Canada that followed the St. Mary’s River. In 1825 the Erie Canal connected the Atlantic with the Great Lakes – with Superior, Erie, Michigan, Huron and Ontario. The Yankees from New York and New England came with it, for better or for worse. Locks were built so shipping could bypass the rapids. A bridge erected between the American city of the Sault and the Canadian city of the Sault. But what came to be called Kingfisher Cross was already there by 1776, located well above the rapids where the water was smooth and far slower.

Our town is east and south of the American Sault. Thick with trees. Some say Kingfisher Cross truly had its beginnings when the Jesuits cleared a spot in the forest and put a cross there and a hut for a hermitage about 1669. The hermitage was erected a good distance from their mission to ensure the privacy of the priests who went to the hut to pray and fast. In the 1700s people began to live there and log cabins were built. A Catholic church was built by the hut and the hermitage maintained. The Amish arrived about 1805 and began to plow south of the site and put up their own tall, sturdy houses. A bit farther to the east Métis built cottages, smoked venison and fish, and sold them in the city, the Sault.

Children filled the streets and lanes, scavenging for arrowheads and the sharp tips of spears. Dogs and cats joined them. Ponies wandered about the town and so did mule deer and whitetails. Sometimes bull moose.

Whichever kinds of people came to the Sault came to Kingfisher Cross as well if they disliked all the noise and congestion of a growing city. Around 1917, just as America marched off to the Great War, streets were straightened, avenues laid out, a fire hall built, police hired, schools established. In 1920 those that wanted to could get on the grid for telephones and radios and electric lights. Yet Kingfisher Cross still retained most of its trees, its creeks and ponds and meadows, its rustic beauty, the belted kingfisher still dived for fish in the rivers and streams, smoke still drifted from its campfires and smoke pits and chimneys, not coal dust and soot. Teddy Roosevelt, the President, visited for half an hour one fall, on his way through Michigan – This would be the place to retire and take stock of your life. To fish and hunt and walk the forests till a man is woods weary, yet invigorated in the spirit.

Kingfisher Cross remains a small town, but it has its separate communities and neighborhoods, yet not so separate we need walls. Chippewa call their part Ojiibik, root. The French Canadians gather in what they call Les Saults, the Old French for rapids. The Catholics are mostly near their church, St. Mary’s. The Finns cluster where they have built their stone and rock chapel, Espoo, for their Lutheran faith. The Schlabach Kingfisher Amish are on their farms. They meet in one another’s houses for worship once a month so they do not have a church building. Not all Black Southerners who migrated to Michigan wound up in Detroit. Some came to the Sault. Some came to us. They built Simon of Cyrene Baptist because Simon was from Libya.

Not everyone builds churches and chapels and follows Jesus. Some worship the stars. Some worship the oldest trees they can find. Some say they listen to what the angels whisper. Some are Buddhist. Some Hindu. Some Muslim. Some Zoroastrian. Some Baha’i. A few choose to embrace the Norse gods and goddesses – there is a man now who says his new name is Thor. Others believe in nothing but themselves and the air they breathe in and out.

Such is the mix of lives here. No different than the rest of the world, really. In all, Kingfisher Cross has just under five thousand souls, each of them unique, as all souls everywhere are unique, and in their own unique worlds and realities. Except, I think, there is more peace, more kindness, more grace at Kingfisher Cross. From the beginning, people have found blessing here. They still do, regardless of the challenges they face and whatever sufferings they may endure. Closer to the Sault the waters remain turbulent after thousands of years. But near to Kingfisher Cross, to the east, they are smooth and flat, if swift. They do not strike fear or awe in the heart. They grant a conflicted soul both serenity and clarity.

GYPSY BLOOD

I’m Jaycee Sawchuk. I’m sixteen. I mention this at the outset because I’m pretty sure it’s not my real name. Or Jaycee is, but Sawchuk isn’t. I’m convinced I have Romani in me and that’s what my family’s roots are. Gypsy blood.

I see the dark features in all of us. The gypsy DNA. It takes forever to brush out my thick, black hair. My eyes are wild, a weird kind of blue that looks like it came from outer space. Really. If you saw me you’d get it. And my eyebrows – they take up half my face and they’re the color of three in the morning. Like, that’s the witching hour, right? I’ve always been teased about them – are you Lady Dracula, do you have bat wings, did you drink your glass of blood today, what happened to your latest boyfriend, a coffin? My nickname got to be Drac or Eyebrows. My friends used Eyebrows in a nice way.

It all changed though. The bullying stopped at fourteen. Or most of it did. From the boys, it sure did. Not from all the girls though. My friend Ravenna nailed it for me: You’re a crazy, raving, gypsy beauty. The guys are gonna start begging. Don’t make it easy for the ones who treated you like dirt, okay?

They did and I didn’t. I let them drift. For the clawed and fanged girls, I just had the one sentence I repeated over and over – It must hurt so bad not to be me. At eleven, I thought I was a gawky freak. At fourteen and fifteen, I knew otherwise. I was black fire, totally. I was bewitching, I was mesmerizing, I could dance circles around men’s hearts and tall campfire flames. I was a force of nature.

But dad. He insisted we had no gypsy blood. Not a drop of Romani fire. He hated the thought of it. I showed him online photos of gypsy girls. Any of them could be my sisters. For that matter, any of them could be me. My sisters Leesha and Karis agreed. Dad said we were just naturally dark from our European bloodline which had nothing to do with the Romani, but a lot to do with Poland, Ukraine and Latvia.

When the three of us went to the Halloween Dance at the school my fifteenth year – Karis and Leesha were older – we did ourselves up as gypsies. We didn’t care what dad thought. Hair, eye makeup, swirling skirts, bracelets and anklets, red scarves, a million rings of silver and turquoise, we killed it. Guys were lined up for miles for a chance for one short dance. Ha ha. Revenge. Me and my sisters loved it. When dad found out, he hit the roof and kept going.

Mom had no trouble with any of this, she herself was black as midnight. (Dad was too.) She calmed dad down over and over again as his three teen daughters explored the Romani side he said we didn’t have. What he should have done is lock the attic. Because I made my way there one afternoon when I was alone in the house. I’d ignored that place for years and then suddenly I felt compelled, driven, guided, whatever, to push aside the heavy walnut bureau, pick the lock, and open the door. I had no idea what I was looking for among the trunks, and cedar chips, and racks of old clothes and broken chairs. But I found it.

Under a pile of cardboard boxes of hardcover books, many of them leather bound, I discovered a locked metal case. It wasn’t that large, but I sensed it held something significant. I picked that lock too. I was good at such things. Inside was a lot of yellow newspaper. Underneath, a notebook tied shut with rope. Not string. Rope.

I tried to untie it, but the knot was a million years old and too tight. So, out came my small Spyderco knife from my jeans pocket. The notebook still had good binding and it opened well. The scent wasn’t unpleasant. It was full of old looking, and odd looking, cursive writing in black ink that hadn’t faded very much.

It started out –

This is the secret notebook of Jephthah Sawchuk. It is only for me and those I share it with. If I am not sharing it, please close this book and go away. It is about my family’s history. Not yours. I just don’t want to forget about any of this. I wrote it down in 1868 and 1869. I turned eighteen before I finished it. I hope it will not get lost. It should be a dime novel.

With a beginning like that, I had no intention of not reading his notebook. I skimmed it quickly. Hey. He was quite the storyteller. And he had a prodigious memory. I don’t know how much he embellished or made up, but I got the impression most of what he’d put down had really happened and he’d never forgotten it. His English was good, his handwriting was legible, he had a tale to tell and, besides all that, I was a Sawchuk too. It was my family’s history as much as it was his.

I found better light from a window in the roof, a dusty skylight, and leaned up against an ancient, really ancient, grandfather clock. I grabbed a plush, purple cushion for my back and knew I had a couple of hours. I wish I’d had a Coke or Pepsi or Dr. Pepper’s. But I was too lazy to go downstairs and get one. So, that’s how I began to read my great-great-great cousin’s journal.

I wasn’t sure how many greats, actually, and I wasn’t even sure he was a cousin. He could’ve been an uncle. For all I knew, he was a grandfather and his blood and DNA were swirling in my veins. I didn’t it feel I had committed a violation of any kind. I’d been brought to this book and I was convinced God wanted me to read it. And anyone else I chose to share it with.

So, Jephthah carried on –

I was only seventeen, but I remember the argument well. Everyone else was on one side and my family on the other. Well, my mother and father, I mean, because none of the rest of our family had a vote. You had to be twenty-one.

Gypsies wanted to join our group for the trip west. Gypsies! They had me mesmerized from the start with their dark hair, and their dark looks, and their smiles that flashed like moonlight. One of the girls was my age, maybe sixteen, or seventeen, and she was so pretty, and such a good shot, such an amazing rider, I just tumbled downhill fast for her. She knew it too.

I didn’t try to hide my admiration. I prayed I’d find favor with her, because I was tall and had good muscle for my age, and my eyes were green and shining as fresh spring grass, which some girls liked, always teasing. The second day they were with us she finally turned and looked at me full on, her black hair down to her knees, her eyes blazing like a black fire, a scarf of every kind of color you could think of wrapped around her head, big earrings like gold hoops catching all the sunlight there was. She smiled and the smile struck me like a knife cut.

Hi, Jephthah, she said and her voice was as deep as a well. Which just made her even more exciting and mysterious. And how did she know my name?

But back to that argument. Which the gypsy family wasn’t around for. Pa said we didn’t need another wagon for the train. That we’d already voted to stay small and adding another wagon meant six and that wasn’t small anymore.

This whole small train, large train conflict had to do with Indian attacks. The idea was they wouldn’t go after us if we were a small train because the pickings wouldn’t be worth it. They’d leave us be and wait and ambush a larger train. The other side of the nickel was that a large train had too many guns and was harder to capture. So, Indians would prefer a smaller train since they could be guaranteed to get all of it or a piece of it if they killed enough of us.

You’d have to have an Indian mind to figure out which they’d choose. But for me and my older brother Jack there wasn’t a heck of a lot of difference between our minds and an Indian mind. Some war parties would go after small trains and some would go after the large ones. Just like we would do if we were the attackers. It would depend on the day, on how good we thought our riflemen were, on how desperate we were for loot and plunder. So, the whole thing was a silly argument because flipping a coin was just as good a way of figuring the odds.

Small train, large train just led to the shooting side of the argument. Where Pa didn’t want to go because he knew he’d lose. But the other wagons dragged him there just the same.

You seen how they shoot, Sawchuk, Rolf Salzgeber told him. He was from Switzerland, tall with big hands and what I called boulder muscles. He’d argue that the moon was steak, and ready to eat, if he had a mind to be ornery. "Ja, you seen that yesterday when we tested them. Not just the man. His three boys. His three girls. His wife. The grandfather and grandmother. Whoever else they had there with those Winchester Yellowboys. Shooting playing cards in half from a hundred yards. Who can do this among us? We need their guns. We need their magic."

His using the word magic had mom spitting. That’s just it, Rolf! she barked. We don’t need their magic. We don’t want their magic. This is a wagon train of good Christian folk who go to church, and read their Bibles, and pray over their food. We don’t need heathen who talk to spirits, or who go about reading palms, or crystal balls, or who got those cards of the devil with the skeletons on them.

Now, Beulah, Mrs. Mackenzie spoke up. She had her thick brogue she’d brought with her from Glasgow. We asked them about all that, didn’t we? They go to church, they have a family Bible, the grandfather reads prayers at supper. They ask God to heal their infirmities daily. Most of us don’t do that.

Ma was furious and would not be placated. She said she’d never have agreed to join the train if she’d known the wagon boss - who was Rolf Salzgeber - would have opened the door to hell by bringing gypsies in.

I’ve a mind to pull out, Ma shrilled. I’ve a mind to take my family and join the Cooper’s train.

The Cooper’s train left four days ago, Beulah, Pa reminded her. We won’t catch ‘em.

We’ll catch em!" Ma roared.

And be easy pickings traveling for days all on our own. Six or seven braves could arrow us up and take everything. Leave us to rot.

The seven of us could fight ‘em off! Ma kept on storming.

Why, only Jack and Jep shoot. Jack and Jep and myself. The girls don’t shoot and Alice is only five.

It don’t matter.

Enough of this, Mrs. Sawchuk. Rolf shook his head. We don’t want you to leave us. But we must head out in the morning so we will take the vote now. All those who say yes to the new wagon, to the Brazils joining us, raise their right hands. gut. Those opposed? Only the Sawchuks. The motion is carried. We start out in the morning. Early. Be prepared. Filson, let the Brazils know, if you will. They are about a quarter-mile back. You know the wagon. Red and yellow. Large back wheels, smaller wheels to the front.

The wagon with its colors, and its yellow wheels, was as astonishing to me as Kezia Brazil. For her to be driving their four black horses up to the train at dawn the next day, looking strong and confident in the seat of that dazzling wagon, I could only stand like a stone, watching her. She ignored me.

I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the Brazil family. They would bring up the rear of the train and our wagon was second from the front. Mother had warned us to stay away from them. They were the devil’s children. She claimed to have seen their crystal ball: They wrap it in a black cloth. Soon enough our train will be punished for bringing them along and then we’ll have another vote and get rid of that family.

I found out bits and pieces about the Brazils as we moved along with