Incidents in the Life of Markus Paul by David Adams Richards Page B

had told Amos after the meeting of the band council. No one had spoken to Hector, no one cared about him, and he was mostly alone. That is why he went up to work the boat that day. He was lucky to get on, because of Amos. Because who ever bothered with him?
    Sometimes Hector would sit on the big rock down on the shore and skip stones for an hour or two without saying a thing. The only one who was kind enough to skip stones with him was Little Joe Barnaby, who was eight.
    Markus had always felt sorry for Hector. But what good did that do now? he had asked Amos. For he hadn’t been much of a friend himself.
    Amos had only nodded his head and patted his grandson’s hand.
    Rumour stated that the load was rigged, that the ship had been paid off to leave, to take the evidence out to sea. Just as the clouds swirled over Markus’s head, so did rumour. Not only was what had happened to Hector a terrible tragedy but it was romantic, especially to the girls, whom Markus himself wanted to impress.
    “But,” Markus ventured after arriving at Isaac’s house and seeing all the youngsters sitting about and drinking beer in the yard, calling out to old adversaries as if they all were bonded together forever, “my granddad says if he did hook on, he would still have to hook on right or the load wouldn’t have lifted and maybe even would have dropped before it got to the boat. Or as it swung over it.”
    “There’s a hundred ways to do it,” Joel Ginnish said, coming to the door and looking down at the boy as he made the motion of a knot. And everyone looked at Markus as if he was making things needlesslycomplicated because he was old Amos’s grandson. Joel’s words came from Joel, and that is why they were taken seriously. At that moment, Joel could have said anything and it would work to his advantage. So he stood there solemn and dignified while he spoke.
    Yet Markus knew that Joel Ginnish was no expert. He had never worked at anything. When Markus thought about it, the statement “There’s a hundred ways to do it” was not true at all. In fact, others there who had worked a boat or two would know that it wasn’t. But none were bold enough to contradict the statement. And what they were saying about Roger Savage was that he was a criminal. Not just stupid or blundering, but a real criminal who wanted to kill people.
    “We’ve got to get even,” someone said, “for Hec,” and people began to nod. And many began to call the boy Hec instead of Hector then and there.
    Markus, with his very limited experience, still knew Hector’s death would have had to involve prior knowledge and premeditation if it was more than an accident. Besides that—and it was a big besides—as long as Hector had stayed on his side of the hold, away from the drop, he would have been fine. And who in the yard would have known that Hector would step out as the load was coming down?
    “No,” Isaac said to Markus, putting his hand on his shoulder, “the load ricocheted and killed him. Let’s not destroy his memory by saying it was his fault.”
    “I don’t want to do that,” Markus said, knowing the idea that he wanted to be negative about Hector’s memory seemed more plausible than the fact that he might be telling the truth.
    The year before, Isaac and Markus and Amos had all been part of a big, happy family. They had done things together, riding about in Isaac’s Mercury, for Isaac had wanted to be known as a friend of the chief and a friend of the chief’s grandson. They had gone to the gravel pit and Isaac had let them shoot his .30-30 rifle at Custer—meaning, bottles. Last winter they had even shot a moose—well,
they
didn’t, but Isaac had—and Isaac had showed Markus how to hunt.
    Isaac had been over to Amos’s house for a beer or two to talk about the recreation centre and the Skilsaws there. Then Joel had come along. Joel suddenly acted as if he were instrumental in everything. He told people who Isaac was going to see and