Kai Thomas' In The Upper Country shows how Black and Indigenous histories intertwine — read an excerpt
CBC Books | Posted: November 15, 2023 4:35 PM | Last Updated: November 15, 2023
In The Upper Country is on the shortlist for the 2023 Atwood Gibson Writers' Trust Fiction Prize.
In The Upper Country, young Lensinda Martin is summoned to interview an old woman who has killed a slave hunter. The woman, who recently arrived in Dunmore, Alta. via the Underground Railroad, refuses to confess but instead proposes a deal: a story for a story. Through these stories, the interwoven nature of Indigenous and Black histories in North America become apparent and Lensinda's destiny could be changed forever.
Kai Thomas is a writer, carpenter and land steward. Born and raised in Ottawa, he is of Black and mixed heritage descended from Trinidad and the British Isles. CBC Books named Thomas a Black writer to watch in 2023.
In The Upper Country is on the shortlist for the 2023 Atwood Gibson Writers' Trust Fiction Prize. The annual $60,000 award recognizes the best novel or short story collection by a Canadian author. The winner will be announced on Nov. 21, 2023.
You can read an excerpt below.
The thick smell of hay gave the jail cells the feel of stables. Fittingly, perhaps, the only seat in the hall was an old milking stool. When I took it, and blinked in the half-light cast by the high, barred window, I saw the old woman rise from her corner and regard me closely. She approached in a prowling way that threw me; for a moment I was unsure of where, or rather, on which side of the bars I had moored. I was still tired from the lack of sleep, and my head ached.
She was small, and older than I had thought; the skin of her face seemed as grooved as the folds of the head wrap she wore. Her eyes, deep set beneath her brow, shimmered as she walked through the shaft of window light to come as near as she could. She shifted the thick throw blanket that she wore as a shawl, and rested her hand on an iron bar between us.
"What's your name, girl?"
Her voice sounded like the wind, a drum.
"Lensinda," I told her. "Pleased to meet you. And your name, ma'am?"
I reached into my sack to retrieve my pen and ink.
"Your other name," she said sharply.
I hesitated, my hand pausing, clasping the ink bottle.
"Martin," I said. "And may I ask yours?"
She turned her back to me and made a cooing sound, one hand against her mouth, the other moving in a pinching motion, sprinkling what looked like dust, which fell slowly to the hay-strewn ground. She bent and touched the ground directly after. She was a strange bird indeed, and spry despite her age.
She was a strange bird indeed, and spry despite her age.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, turning to face me again.
"And another thing," she went on, raising a finger at me. "Don't ever come empty-handed again. I crave a soft pear. It's a bit early for pear, yes, but see what you can do."
I sat for a moment, dumbly, my hand still in my bag. I felt confusion for the briefest of moments before annoyance took over, prickling at my temples. It was no small voyage from Dunmore to Chatham (and back again), and I was not eager to have made it for these few moments.
"You know," I said, summoning every bit of warmth I could muster. "You know, there are many folk, black and white, who will be aching to hear your story."
She stood still, looking at me with the utmost boredom, and did not move for a good long moment. Believe me, I have been known to hold a gaze, but when she started to sniff, snort, cackle, and finally hoot, all the while staring at me, I let my eyes wander over the cold stone walls of her enclosure and felt a whit of contentment at her condition.
"Girl!" she said in the most dissatisfied tone. "The day will not come —" she whispered, interrupting herself with a cough and another cackle. "The day will not come when I care what folk ache to hear of me!"
'The day will not come when I care what folk ache to hear of me!'
And she devolved into snorts and laughter again.
"I may be down here," she said, breaking her jest to breathe, and pointing at the hay beneath her. "But I ain't down there." And she pointed past me. Due south.
I was beginning to hate every moment of this.
"And even if I was — ho! My story!" she blurted, and I feared she would devolve yet again. Instead she coughed tentatively and sobered. Thank God.
"No," she said finally. "Folk may want to hear about how an old woman shot a man down in a cornfield."
She paused a moment, staring lazily at the iron bars before her.
"Folk may want to hear about how the woman mad, or how terrible it is south of the border." Here, she looked at me with something resembling fury, and I could not abide it.
"You are not the only fugitive to cut down a slave hunter!" I snapped at her.
Her lip curled at my remark, making her countenance more disdainful than angered.
"Though you may be the only one stupid enough to get caught," I said.
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I might have regretted that taunt immediately if her face had not deepened in contempt. So I continued: "You may not have known when you shot the man, but your case will go to court. This means there is an opportunity to set a precedent that affirms that actions such as yours — stupid as they are — are justified. Such a precedent would stoke a very necessary dread in the souls of all those who would hold coloured men captive."
Such a precedent would stoke a very necessary dread in the souls of all those who would hold coloured men captive.
She looked on me, unmoved.
"Don't you see?" I implored. "This is a chance to make folk recognize, or rather to make them realize . . ." I wavered, unsure of what, exactly, I meant to say. I cursed myself for speaking at all.
"How gruesome the life under the whip," she said, as if that settled some great thing. She half turned away from me and began to walk as if she had somewhere to go.
I simmered on my stool.
"My story," she mumbled, placing a hand on the stone wall of her enclosure. "Where would you have me begin?" she said, as if entreating the wall itself.
I fumbled for my pen in my sack. I hadn't expected this turn — I had been fit to give up, in fact.
"Well," I began, "how... how came you to slavery?"
She huffed and I saw the back of her head wrap bow as she lifted her face to the wall.
"Same as everyone, I reckon," she said. "I was born Negro in this world. So it is we come to slavery, no?"
Excerpted from In the Upper Country by Kai Thomas. Copyright © 2023 Kai Thomas. Published by Viking Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.