Strong Heart

by Charlie Sheldon

  For

  Those whose greatest pleasure is curling up with a book

  on a rainy afternoon;

  and to contrary girls everywhere.

  May each of you find your own short face bear.

  © 2017 by Charles Sheldon, Washington, USA. All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

  Published by Iron Twine Press

  www.irontwinepress.com

  Cover design, book design and illustrations by Sonja L. Gerard

  © 2017 by Iron Twine Press

  Cover photo by Charlie Sheldon

  Photo of the author at the Royal Museum by Randa Williams

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978-0-9970600-8-9 (epub)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  We shall not cease from exploring,

  And the end of our exploring

  will be to arrive where we started

  and know the place for the first time.

  T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

  Your vision will become clear

  only when you look into your heart ...

  Who looks outside, dreams.

  Who looks inside, awakens.

  Carl Jung (1875-1961)

  The wind shook the house, roaring like a great animal. Rain thundered on the roof. William imagined ancient spirits, awakened and angry, searching, grasping.

  Three harsh blows struck against the front door, followed by three more, urgent.

  “See who that is, Walleye.” Tom waved down the hallway. He and Myra, William’s daughter, were rolling one of the tents.

  William opened the door to see before him a woman in a dark coat, vaguely familiar, older than William. A child shivered next to her, almost hidden beneath a soaked sweatshirt and hood. The woman had a tight grip on the child’s upper arm. The child held a wet travel bag. Beyond, past the porch, through a driving rain, he saw a jeep, headlights on, facing back down the driveway.

  William sensed Tom and Myra coming up behind him. He stepped aside. Tom saw the woman and stiffened. “Long time since we spoke, Ruth.” Now William recognized her. This was Ruth, Tom’s ex-wife. William had met her many years earlier, back when he had been fishing on Tom’s boat.

  Ruth pushed into the hallway, dragging the child. “May we come in?” Tom, William and Myra backed up. William guessed the child was a girl, 12 or 13 years old, thin as a stick, less than five feet tall, mouth determined. Beneath the hood, dark hair fell over a narrow face. A metal pin gleamed on one nostril. Ruth pulled at the girl’s arm. “This is your granddaughter. I just found out five days ago. She’s Becky’s child.”

  The girl, wincing as Ruth held her arm, dropped her bag to the floor.

  Tom stared at Ruth, then the girl. His glasses glinted. He swallowed. “You told me our Becky, bless her soul, had no children, Ruth, when you last called, five years ago, to tell me she was dead.”

  “Becky ran away when she was 15, Tom. I lost touch, all right? When I heard she died, I didn’t know she had a child.” Ruth eyed Myra and William, then Tom. “Five days ago her father called, out of the blue. He’s taken a job in Europe and he sent her out here for the summer. He said she needed a time out from the family. Coming out here was her idea, he said.” Ruth’s mouth tightened. “She’s been with Fletcher and me four days. That’s enough. It’s your turn. This is your granddaughter, Tom. Her name is Sarah.”

  Tom looked closely at Sarah, trying to see past the dripping hood, the hair, the metal pin. He squatted, eye to eye with Sarah. “Sarah? Do you have a last name?”

  The girl twisted her arm free of Ruth. “Cooley. Sarah Cooley.”

  Tom stood, keeping his eyes on Sarah. “Ruth, you could have told me about this when you first heard.”

  “I’m telling you now. Here she is. You can deal with her drinking, her bad attitude, and the skateboard trash she somehow met. Have fun.” Ruth then turned and marched through the open door to the idling jeep. She started down the long dirt driveway, not looking back. Tom reached past Sarah, closed the door.

  Sarah was shivering. “This is the total boonies. Now I’m going to stay here?” She noticed the camping gear scattered in the hallway. “Your house is a mess.”

  “Could this be true, Tom?” Myra seemed delighted. “You have granddaughter?” Sarah’s teeth were chattering. “I think Sarah needs a hot shower, some dry clothes, and hot food.” Rain drummed the roof.

  “You have food?” Sarah’s voice trembled.

  “Elk stew,” Tom said. A big pot was bubbling on the stove.

  “Elk? Gross.”

  Myra took Sarah’s bag and led Sarah through the living room to a bathroom to show her towels, where she could shower, and where she could change into some dry clothes from her bag. Then Myra returned through the living room to the kitchen. Tom and William were standing, packing forgotten.

  “Tom, suddenly you’re a grandfather?”

  Tom glanced toward the bathroom, then at Myra and William. “This isn’t funny, Myra.” He was pale. “But she’s Becky’s twin. Talks just like her. Looks exactly like Becky did at that age. It’s uncanny. I have no doubt she is Becky’s child.”

  “What are you going to do? Obviously we can’t go camping. Maybe it’s for the best. It’s only early May.” Myra eyed William doubtfully, then Tom. Tom was 10 years older than William, not quite 70, wiry and tall. William was even taller but carried way too much heft. Myra shook her head. “It’s over 30 miles, the last six or seven off trail. It would be safer later in the summer.”

  William wasn’t in shape for this. Tom had asked him to come along and William had asked Myra to join them, because he knew he might need help. Myra was skilled in the woods, had some of William’s height, much of his strength, and none of his girth or looks.

  They could hear the shower running. Tom removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. “Dammit. I wanted to get up there before Buckhorn starts their work, see that valley before it changes. Make sure Bob-Bob’s grave is secure. Now is when ‘Eye, here, is off his ship. And he told me this is the only time you can get away from the tribe.” Tom glanced toward the sound of the shower. “Dammit. This trip wasn’t easy to schedule.”

  Myra placed her hand on Tom’s forearm. “It’s barely May, Tom. You told us you buried your grandfather Bob-Bob up there over 45 years ago. Bob-Bob isn’t going anywhere. Surely a few more weeks won’t matter. By then Sarah will be back at Ruth’s, or with her family.”

  Tom’s lined face caught shadows. “Maybe you’re right. It’s a long way in there. Probably not the best time to leave work, either.” He pulled bowls from a cupboard, spoons from a drawer. “My God. I’m going to have to set up one of the bedrooms for her. See about getting her in school. She hates it here, that’s already obvious. Who’s going to watch her between the end of school and when I get home from work?” Tom leaned on the counter, facing the cupboards. “Hell. I can’t do this.”

  Sarah, in dry clothes, appeared from the bathroom. She was carrying a sketchpad. She stopped in the living room, studied a small Haida war canoe William had carved and given Tom years before. Then she followed her nose past the seating counter to the kitchen.

  Tom handed Sarah a bowl of stew. She took a taste. Then she took a big spoonful, followed by another. Tom gave bowls to William and Myra. They all sat at the kitchen table. They ate but they watched Sar
ah. She finished her stew fast.

  Tom refilled her bowl. “You and Ruth and Fletcher, you didn’t get along, did you? At least, you and me, we have that in common.”

  Sarah was spooning stew. “There was nothing to do. He’s mean. She’s all about rules. I don’t think I have anything in common with you.”

  “You’re the spitting image of your mother.”

  “I am? Ruth didn’t believe me. Not really.”

  “We’ll take you to the hospital for genetic testing, of course.”

  William saw the sparkle in Tom’s eye and knew he was kidding. Sarah’s eyes grew wide. “You’ll come to understand your grandfather’s sense of humor,” William offered.

  Sarah relaxed. She placed the empty bowl on the counter. “Where’s your television?”

  “No television,” Tom said.

  “There was a television there. At her place.”

  “Well, not here. Read a book.”

  “This is absolutely the boonies.” Sarah returned to the living room. She slouched in a chair by the woodstove. She opened her sketchpad and began drawing, head down, intent.

  Tom pulled Myra and William further into the kitchen, beyond Sarah’s sight. He lowered his voice. “What should I do? Ruth’s dumped her on me.”

  “After a week or two she and Fletcher will take her back,” Myra said. “Or you can send her to Europe, back to her father.”

  Tom shook his head. “I know Ruth. She wouldn’t have taken her to begin with if there was any way to avoid it. That girl’s out here for the summer, minimum.” Wind buffeted Tom’s house. Tom gathered the bowls and washed them in the sink. Nobody spoke for several minutes.

  “You can call Family Services and put her in foster care,” Myra eventually said.

  “Foster care? Are you serious?”

  “Or she stays with you. You’re her grandfather.”

  William noticed Sarah standing at the entrance to the kitchen, listening.

  “What about school, Sarah?” Myra asked, seeing Sarah.

  “I’m done, this year.”

  “Here in Washington, school doesn’t end until the middle of June, more than a month from now.”

  “I went to a special school. For problem kids. We finished five days ago.”

  “And after that you came right out here?” Tom was wiping the bowls dry.

  “Well, duh. I didn’t know my grandmother was a tight-ass or my grandfather cooked elk. Yuk.”

  “You ate a lot of elk, Sarah.” Tom was grinning. Sarah said nothing. Tom watched his granddaughter. Then he asked William, “What do you think, Walleye?”

  “What kind of stupid name is Walleye?” Sarah refused to look at William’s wayward eye.

  “His real name is William,” Myra said. “He’s my father, and the biggest, ugliest Indian I know. See how his eye wanders? My dad can be a good friend. Don’t let his looks scare you.”

  “I’m not anyone’s friend. There’s nothing here. This is the end of the earth, this place.”

  Myra crouched before Sarah, reached out, and touched her shoulder. “No, Sarah. This is the Olympic Peninsula. This is a land of magic, history, and legend. A place of myth, ancient stories, ancient people.”

  “Where? All I see is water, mud and trees.” Rain rattled the sides of Tom’s house.

  Sarah was thin and short but William already knew her spirit was hot and strong. Sarah was not much bigger than Myra had been at age nine, 20 years earlier, when William had taken her camping on the Pacific coast. Myra had survived that trip, even learned how to build a fire with wet wood. Now William watched Tom, perplexed, facing his granddaughter. Sarah stared back, watchful. Tom looked past Sarah at all the gear in the hall. Tom had been about to leave to visit his grandfather’s grave and now, William realized, he was responsible for a grandchild he never knew he had. Sarah had the same straight thin nose as her grandfather, the same air of careful deliberation. Maybe those traits had come from Bob-Bob, who was Sarah’s ancestor, too. Suddenly, William knew what Tom should do.

  “Sarah,” William said. “Tom here was going to take Myra and me with him to visit his grandfather’s grave.” Tom caught William’s eye, frowning. Tom started to shake his head. William went on, “That’s your great-great grandfather, Sarah. We were going to leave tomorrow morning. You should come, you can meet his spirit, too.”

  “I don’t believe that spirit stuff, ‘Eye,’ and it’s not your business to ask her to come.” Tom frowned, lips tight. “Bad suggestion.”

  “What, Tom? We cancel the trip, and you stay here? Why not, we take the trip, as planned, but with Sarah, and you both honor your ancestor?”

  “Dad’s right, Tom. I’ll have someone to help me watch you geezers. Sarah will get to know you, and us. She can see this country herself, make up her own mind about what sort of land this is.”

  Sarah’s mouth was open.

  Tom was still shaking his head. “She’s a green kid, Myra. Put a pack on her back and head off into rough country? Off trail, maybe snow? Are you serious? ‘Eye, you can’t be serious.”

  William pictured Sarah, whining, spitting, a profane bundle of rage, buried beneath a pack, being hauled down the trail. At least, with her along, his fat-ness and suffering wouldn’t be so obvious.

  Tom was definite. “This is a very bad idea.” He glared.

  Myra laughed. “I’ll need some help making sure you old warriors don’t cripple yourselves. Seeing you get fed and have plenty of rest. Sarah will be a big help.”

  Tom snorted. A branch scraped the roof under the wind.

  “You guys are going camping? That’s what you’re doing?”

  William eyed Tom. “Better that than leaving you loose and homeless here in Sol Duc.”

  “This is a mistake.” Tom was still glaring at William.

  Myra pulled out her car keys. “I have extra gear, Sarah, from when I was your size. We’ll run over to my place on the res. I can get you outfitted in an hour. My dad and Tom can add food for the four of us here, we have plenty. The rain should stop by morning.”

  “A hike? Seriously? Seriously? This is child abuse.”

  The heavy clouds blew east. The next morning a bright sun rose. Tom’s muddy driveway steamed. They made the short drive to the trailhead, heading south from Sol Duc to Route 101, then into Olympic National Park. At the Whiskey Bend trailhead, the parking lot was empty. Outside the car, the air was cool. Sarah leaned against a car door, pack at her feet, sullen. William knew it it was going to be a long day when he lifted his pack. His pack was heavy.

  Another vehicle appeared, scattering gravel. Four men emerged from a white four-seat pickup with a company logo on the door. The men were all dressed in dark green pants, light-colored laced boots, tan vests over green long-sleeve shirts, and bill caps. They weren’t park rangers, but they weren’t casual hikers, either. Without much talk or discussion they pulled big packs from the bed of the truck.

  Myra, returning from the trailhead rest room, passed them. William saw the men staring at her, the way men always did. She stopped, saying, “It’s nice the rain stopped. Where you headed?”

  “Up a ways,” said the youngest. He pointed toward the trail.

  “Going all the way through over Low Divide to the Quinault? That’s 50 miles.”

  “Let’s go, Pete,” A square-jawed man wearing sunglasses gestured toward the trail. Pete, who seemed Myra’s age, about to say something, shut his mouth. The four shouldered their packs and headed out. Within a minute they were gone.

  “Trail maintenance crew, maybe?” Tom shivered. “It’s cold.”

  Myra helped Sarah mount her pack. William’s pack felt huge. Tom pulled a capped, rigid tube from the car and carefully strapped it to the side of his pack. The tube was just over three feet long, four inches in diameter.

  “We going fishing?” Wil
liam asked. The case resembled a rod holder, but shorter.

  “Not fishing,” Tom tightened the tube straps. “Something else, for when we get back in there. We ready?”

  “This sucks.” Sarah hitched her pack. “This really sucks.”

  Tom led, followed by Sarah and Myra. William brought up the rear. As soon as they left the parking lot, they were in forest. The trail was covered with needles and leaves. The trees here grew close, and, despite the sun overhead, they walked in shadows. The trail, along a side hill, twisted and curved, passing tumbling freshets. The forest was quiet but for the sound of their thudding feet and the cry of an occasional bird. Myra followed Sarah, now and then encouraging her. They’d kept Sarah’s pack as small as possible, but it still rose over her back like a misshapen hump, swaying.

  William overheard Myra. “You’ll get less tired if you swing your feet around the rocks, instead of stepping up on each one.”

  Tom was leading, carrying a long walking stick. As the trail curved, Tom would disappear around a bend, then reappear as they made the bend themselves. William started swinging his feet as Myra had suggested. Within 15 minutes he was sweating, despite the chill day. For Sarah’s sake they walked 20 minutes, then stopped to rest for five. William had learned with Myra years before that 20 minutes was a time span a child could understand, and the promise of knowing there was a short rest ahead helped.

  The first time they stopped, Sarah sat on a big stone beneath a beam of sunlight poking through the trees. She leaned back and her pack was braced against the rising slope. Sarah had instinctively picked the one place where she could relax without removing her pack. William caught Myra’s eye, nodded.

  “This is so lame,” Sarah’s eyes were closed.