Chapter 1
Wild Woman
“Dzunuk’wa”
By: Graham McMullen
“Thomas Urquhart Jr.“, came the droll and somewhat sarcastic tone from the old man behind the desk of the hotel. “Pretty important soundin’ name if ya ask me.” Steel blue eyes twinkled between a hedge of white eyebrows and the top of a pair of cheap reading glasses. He held up the card to the light to see it better. “People use these things a lot in the big smoke I’ll betcha. That real gold?” The wrinkled hand held the business card at odd angles to catch the reflection from the print.
“I have a reservation I believe.” Thomas finally let out after a deep breath. “My office should have made it for me a week ago.” He set his other bag down to dig through the pocket of his coat for the folder with his travel arrangements.
“A reservation! You don’t look native. Heh heh.” The old man watched Thomas’ face for some recognition of his tremendous wit. Seeing none he frowned and gave a hmmm.
“I have come to visit my father, perhaps you know him...” came the pained retort.
“Thomas Urquhart Sr. I’ll bet?” The old man grinned, his last remaining teeth brown and dark with too many years of chewing tobacco. “I don’t recollect knowin someone with a fancy handle like that.”
“Tom, or Tommy as his friends called him, he used to work as the lead hand for North West Timber before he retired.” Thomas added, not knowing why he bothered humoring this old man.
“Ya don’t say! You Tom’s boy? The one who decided that life wasn’t exciting enough for ‘im round here? Why I’ll be. Hey Ruby looky here... we got Ol’ Tom’s sprout visitin.” He called out over his shoulder to someone in the caretakers suite behind the counter. “He didn’t retire though, not ol’ Tom... they retired him when they sold out to that bunch of Americans.” That came with a snort and a stream of black spittle out of the corner of his mouth. He held a hand out as if to halt the conversation. “Scuse me.” Head turned and a wad of spit and tobacco shot into what Thomas hoped was a spittoon under the counter. Wiping the remainder from his lip with the sleeve of the once white thermal undershirt the codger dug into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt to retrieve a tin so he could re-stoke. “Sure I know Tom, worked with him for fifteen years till I dropped a tree on my leg.” He slapped his right thigh. “Best damned foreman I ever worked for.”
Thomas sighed, “That’s really nice. Look, I am quite tired and I would like an early start tomorrow so could we see to my room?
“Stumpy they call me.” The man held out his brown stained hand. “That’s ’cause of my leg not ‘cause of bein’ a faller.” He tried to laugh without loosing his chaw. His hand shot back to catch the dribble.
“I seem to remember my father mentioning something about that. Now.. my room please.” Thomas was tired and beyond being amused. He held out his hand. “My key..?”
Stumpy swung the registry book around then reached under the counter with a frown. “Not very talkative now are we sonny?” A key was produced attached to a slab of deer antler with the room number and SEA VIEW HOTEL burned into it. “Second floor. Up the stairs and to the right.. Room 222.” He spun the book back and peered at it. “That’ll be $49 a night... you plannin’ on bein’ round for awhile?”
“The room was booked and paid for. I’ll be here at least two nights. Beyond that depends on my father. Now thank you and good night.” Thomas picked up the key and the rest of his things then headed for the stairs. “Oh by the way, is there somewhere still open for breakfast early in the morning?”
Stumpy was leafing through a file looking for some indication that the room had indeed been paid for. “What? Oh, ya, Ruby has the coffee bar goin’ by 6 a.m. It’s down the hall that way.” He nodded his head to the left. “Paid already, he says.” The last was more of a mumble. “Ruby you know anything bout this room being paid for already?”
Ascending the stairs was like a trip through a logging museum. Old black and white photographs faded and yellowed, showing crews of men sitting on stumps, teams of horses skidding logs and several pictures of spar trees being used to haul logs up side hills. Rusty buck saws, climbing gear and worn out cork boots filled the glassed in showcase on the first landing. Thomas was sure his father could tell him a story about every item. His father was fond of telling stories about the bush and the good old days. Each step up the staircase put the weight of each story on his back and by the time he reached the second floor he was exhausted. Why had he agreed to come back? What was so important his father couldn’t come to Vancouver to tell him? Perhaps that was a bit egocentric and unreasonable. He hadn’t come home since he left for University some eight years ago. Standing facing the door to his room Thomas sagged with the addition of guilt to the burden he bore. Dropping his bag he put the key in the lock. Turning the latch and pushing the door open he stood peering into the darkness. I can stand my ground with a board of directors but I still get weak kneed and nervous with my own father. He flicked on the light before picking up his bag and pushing by the door giving it a kick closed with his heel.
The room was clean but had the overriding odor of old Fir planking, pine cleaner and a hint of stale cigarettes. Thomas was too tired to care. He piled his bags on the spare bed and began decanting what he needed for the night and for morning. Once the room took on some semblance of his own he began his ritualistic preparations for bed. He noted that the clock radio was flashing it’s warning that the power had been out. God knows when that happened he thought. Setting the alarm caused him some grief when the minute button stuck down and his time seemed to fly by. He wished it could be real time so the next few days could be over and he wouldn’t have to deal with tomorrow. Finally resolving himself to the inevitable he set the alarm for quarter to six, flicked off the light and crawled into bed.
