Free Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel by Kim Heacox

good.”
    James brought the can to his lips. “No,” Keb said, surprised by his own sudden ferocity. “You can finish that beer, or you can put it down right now and come help us. I won’t ask you again.”
    Little Mac said, “James, it’s a canoe. It’s the last canoe.”
    He regarded her as if through a thick cloud, where beneath all the bluster and confusion and loss was a quiet plea to be rescued. Keb could see it and figured Little Mac could, too, by the way she took James’s hand and said, “C’mon, we need you.”
    THEY DROVE TO the carving shed and walked to the back, following Keb, whose gait was surprisingly nimble. A recent rain had been received by such thirsty ground that little evidence of it remained. Under a carport, Kevin Pallen sat on a massive, twenty-five-foot red cedar log, carving an alder spoon and smoking a cigarette. The log was on the ground, and deeply notched near both ends. Between the two notches, the upper one-third of the log’s midsection had been removed—planked away along the clear grain—while the ends retained their full diameter. Next to the log stood six sturdy sawhorses, each built at one-quarter height and double strength.
    “That’s not a canoe,” James said. “That’s a log.”
    “Not for long,” Old Keb said. “We need to roll it over and get it on the sawhorses. Loop that line around the end.”
    Keb and Kid Hugh had devised a pulley system using a chain-saw winch and a come-along tied off to a big spruce. After several attempts the log didn’t budge. Keb sat down, breathless. Little Mac stirred up some lemonade. Kid Hugh zipped away on his motorcycle and half an hour later rumbled up the hog-backed road driving a front-end loader. He lifted one end of the log, then the other, and soon had it where Keb wanted it, saddled on the sawhorses, bottom-sideup, with the keel line right down the middle. Little Mac served more lemonade, and Keb drank. He hurt everywhere but felt more alive and purposeful than he had in a long time. After a good rest, he picked up his adz and swung it with surprising agility. Thwack! It sunk into the log. Gasping for air, he said, “The adz marks need to be the same size and depth, parallel to each other for the whole length of the canoe. We add the bow piece later, secure it with pegging. Put a hogback in the middle that will level out when we steam it open and increase the beam-width and fit in the crosspieces. Flaring sides, rounded bottom, buoyancy, speed. Vertical cutwater to throw off high waves in a storm wind,
k’eeljáa
.” Keb took another breath, rolling now, coming alive. “Oyyee . . . carve out the interior to where the hull reaches even thickness . . . two fingerwidths on the sides, three on the bottom. Drive in pegs, maybe—guides for even thickness. Nathan Red Otter didn’t need pegs. He gauged perfect thickness by running his hands over the hull. His hands carry knowledge you cannot explain in books. Perfect symmetry, the wood is lighter on the south side of the tree, the ground needs to be dry; it’s important we split it and chisel it out east to west . . . use wedges and hand mauls for that. Use the chips for fire scoring, wet moss to keep the heat not too hot.” Keb lifted the adz for another strike.
    “Gramps, what are you doing?” James said, alarmed. “You can’t do that. You’re almost a hundred years old.”
    Keb struck the log again with an artful blow. Anybody watching him could see he had once done this with accuracy and grace. He took another swing, his arms like withered twigs on the sturdy handle, hands shaking.
    “Gramps, you’re going to kill yourself.”
    “If I’m lucky.”
    James put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, okay?”
    Old Keb sat down and accepted more lemonade as Little Mac stroked the white hair off his forehead. James and Kid Hugh stared, half expecting him to have a heart attack. Kevin sat apart, still carving his alder spoon, a tidy puddle of shavings