Strong Heart

by Charlie Sheldon

  “That’s what you think about,” said Myra, “being arrested? You’re probably afraid you’ll be deported before you can deliver your precious paper at that conference.”

  “I am Russian, Myra. My nature is to worry about such things. Our history, even our country today, makes me think this way.” Sergei leaned forward and spoke just to Sarah. “My father and I tried to date the sliver, but we were unable to. We did, however, confirm that the bone is mammoth. We tried genetic testing, but those results were confusing.”

  “We don’t know how old it is?” Sarah sounded disappointed.

  “At least 12 thousand years, Sarah. That is when mammoths disappeared. The bone is at least that old. The carbon dating test did not produce a result, I am sorry to say.” Sergei grinned at Sarah. His face lit up. “I think it is wonderful that you have decided to retrieve the spear thrower, Sarah. We need the piece to properly date it, using another method.”

  “We?” Myra asked. “You’re speaking at that damn conference sponsored by Buckhorn. The whole premise of the conference, even the center they want to build, is that people came here within the last 12 to 15 thousand years. That theory absolutely conflicts with our legends, which say we have always been here.”

  Sergei leaned back. “Surely that long ago is the same as always? That was a time before writing, agriculture, and memory.”

  “That argument supports the view that we native people in North America are somehow junior to humans from Asia, Europe or Africa because we came from them. It is an insult.”

  “Well, if that’s so, then we Koryaks should be nearly equally insulted, as the same argument holds for us. Our area produced the people who came to North America, and our area is almost as far from Africa and the Middle East as here.”

  “What does your genetic work say?” Myra was leaning forward aggressively. “Isn’t your paper going to support this argument?”

  Sergei was becoming angry. “You don’t know what my paper is going to say. You are making assumptions. You are making judgments, also.”

  “I am making judgments? You, someone who has never been here, accuse me of making judgments, about a place where my ancestors and I were raised?”

  Tom watched them talk at each other, back and forth. Sarah’s eyes went from one to the other. The angrier Sergei became, the more pronounced his accent. It was very pronounced now. “I would suggest you read my paper when we return and you can decide for yourself about my thesis. I am a scientist, and trained as such. In my field, we use data and evidence to confirm or deny theories. I do not, as do so many these days, confuse strength of belief with fact.”

  “You think I am confusing belief with fact?” Myra was amazed. “Oral traditions, legends, and memory are as useful for understanding the past as fossilized pieces of bone. You scientists discount that because our legends don’t fit with your theories about European and Asian people being older, and therefore more important, than we are. You say we came over here from you, and therefore, we are like your children, inferior to you.”

  Myra was leaning forward, speaking past Sarah, as if Sarah was not there. Sarah, catching William’s eye, rolled hers. Tom coughed uncomfortably. Sergei took a breath, and waited. Minutes passed. The fire crackled. Myra remained leaning forward, as if waiting to challenge whatever Sergei might say. Sergei’s face was all planes and shadows, eyes dark. Everyone was silent. Finally he spoke.

  “I did not say you are confusing belief with fact, Myra. Only you know that. In America these past few years, many people now do confuse belief with fact. They feel something is true only if they strongly believe it is so, as if utter faith equals truth. Such attitudes lead to zealotry, whether religious or scientific. But data is data. Data is not political. My paper reports on what current genetic data says about populations, how DNA is passed down and altered, and what this may mean for history and origins. We know little. There are many theories.” Sergei spoke slowly, like a good teacher. He was clear, and he took pauses between thoughts. “This is even harder when global paradigms prevent new thinking. For centuries, anyone who suggested the earth was not flat was burned at the stake.”

  “We have always been here.” Myra was unflinching.

  “Perhaps you are right, Myra. The current paradigm is that humans did not arrive on this continent until 14 thousand years ago, perhaps slightly earlier. Of course, a century ago theory held that humans arrived here three thousand years ago. Then evidence was found for older visits. It took years for this evidence to be accepted. Many scholars today believe, as you do, that humans have been here longer. But to date the evidence proving that has not been accepted.”

  “That is because the standards keep getting tighter.”

  “Perhaps. All I can do is work with the data I have, Myra. As the data changes, so do theories. I wish my father were here instead of me. He and I argued all the time and he, like you, disliked my data and evidence. He, like you, wanted to believe people arrived in North America earlier.” Sergei paused and frowned. “We had so many arguments that, in the two years before he became sick, we hardly talked. I thought he was a romantic hobbyist. He thought I was an ambitious new scientist, breaking into a new field. We were both right. I had hoped this conference, where we were to each give a paper, could mend our breach.” Myra was silent. Sergei continued to speak, his voice quiet. “Now he has died. I will deliver his paper. I am here because he asked me to come in his place, to see this park, for him and his spirit. I did not want to come, but then I heard Sarah’s story from William, or at least that part of her story she told, and then I wanted to come, very much. Sarah’s story raises questions, questions that require data, perhaps not yet available. This atlatl she says she can find, this will be data.” Sergei dusted off his pants, straightened his back. He gestured across the fire. “William, your father, invited me into this park. I am his guest, not yours. You are here with your father, and I envy you, because your father lives still, and mine does not. I had hoped you would respect my reasons for coming but I now think you will not. I will leave in the morning.” Sergei rose and went to his tent.

  There was a long silence.

  “Nice going, Myra.” Sarah had watched Sergei disappear in the dark to his tent. “He and his dad didn’t have to date that sliver, you know. Now he’s leaving. Nice. Going.”

  Myra moved away from Sarah. “What do you know, Sarah? You’re just 13.”

  Tom chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes, Myra.”

  “Shit.” Myra folded her arms and faced the fire.

  Later, next to William in their tent, Tom adjusted his sleeping bag. “Think they’ll kill each other, if he stays?”

  “He’ll stay, Tom. He really, I mean really, wants to see that spear thrower. He stands up to Myra. She’s not used to that.”

  Sarah and Myra were talking in their tent. William could hear their voices, back and forth, mumbling. They were still talking when he went to sleep.

  In the morning, the air was cool. They shook heavy dew off the tents, then rolled them. They’d be heavier wet, but if they waited for the sun to reach their site they’d not be on the trail until mid-morning. Tom made breakfast. Sergei packed up his gear and came to the fire ring. Sarah watched him and nudged Myra. She nudged Myra again. Sergei, William saw, was preparing to leave, and not with them. Before Sergei could open his mouth Myra handed him a cup of tea.

  “I hope you come with us,” Myra said. Watching Sarah, William knew what the discussion the night before in their tent had been about. “Sarah wants you to come. She says we will need your strength.” Sarah nudged Myra again. “I also would like you to come with us.”

  “You are afraid I will depart the park and inform the authorities where Sarah and you are.” Sergei was making a statement, not asking a question.

  “Yes, that had crossed my mind. But I think they know anyway. Pete is smart and he can put two and two together.” A
ll Sergei had to do was turn and start down the trail. “They’ll figure something else out, too, I think.” Myra glanced at Sarah. “Sarah is sure two of the Buckhorn surveyors overheard us when we were talking about the atlatl up there in May, and know when we came out with Sarah we didn’t have it. Their leader, Roger, isn’t stupid, and neither are the Buckhorn people. They’ll wonder, did we leave it up there, and are we going now to retrieve it? They know that if we find that spear thrower, the Bear Valley would become an archeological site, and that would cause them all sorts of problems. Sarah thinks they may follow us and try to get it back.”

  Sergei’s eyes opened wide. “You are surely part Russian, then, Sarah. That is Russian conspiracy thinking at the maximum. William? Could this be correct?”

  William nodded. Sarah’s theory made sense.

  Sarah poked Myra again.

  “Come with us. Please. Sarah wants to listen to us argue.”

  Sergei spoke to Sarah. “This will be dangerous, Sarah. Myra will be a difficult opponent.”

  “I will defeat you, easily.” Myra hoisted her pack. “You will come with us, then?”

  “If this company sends their police after us, you will need my help. What is the American expression? In for a penny, in for a loaf?”

  “Pound. In for a pound.”

  “Thank you, Myra. I stand corrected.”

  “The first of many times.” Myra started for the trail. Sarah beamed at Sergei, then fell in behind Myra.

  “This could be dangerous.” Tom watched them walk off. “If they come after that spear thrower, they won’t mess around.”

  “Then we better move fast and be smart.” William lifted his pack.

  “I hope to hear the rest of Sarah’s story,” Sergei said.

  “You’re enjoying this, ‘Eye. Both of you are.”

  “Beats mowing my lawn, Tom. Doesn’t this beat fiddling around in your workshop?”

  They were on the trail by the time the sun broke above the ridges. Sarah charged ahead, setting the pace. William was the person who held everyone up, as he had feared. His back ached, he sweated, his pack dug into his hips, his feet became sore. By the time they reached the Lillian River crossing, he was firmly convinced he had made a great mistake.

  Sergei chose to remain with William, silently walking behind, never pressing, never coming close, just allowing him to move at his own pace. William stopped when he had to, continued as he chose. The others were well ahead by the time they reached the dark bridge, and he rested there for some minutes.

  “This is beautiful country, William. But drier than I expected.”

  A shaft of sunlight reached down into the deep gorge, striking the end of the bridge. In the light, motes swarmed. The Lillian River, fed by glaciers on Mt. Lillian and McCartney Peak, chattered and sang.

  “Wait until we get up into Bear Valley, Sergei. That’s closer to the high country. The high country is totally different, and in its way, even more beautiful. It’s dry because this time of year there’s actually a drought.” William stretched. “Thanks for staying with us, Sergei. We can use another strong set of legs.”

  “I do not think your daughter would agree with you.”

  “She’s just not used to someone standing up to her. Might do her some good, actually.”

  They left the bridge and climbed. William fell into a rhythm, a steady slow pace that carried on and on. At noontime they were still on the high bench over Elwha canyon, but starting their descent back to the river. They could hear the river far below. Somewhat later, they found Myra, Sarah and Tom resting on a level spot among the thin trees. Tom was heating some food with the stove. William dropped his pack and sat.

  “You don’t look good, dad.”

  “I never look good.” His heart was thudding. Sweat rolled down his chest.

  Sergei stood, easy and relaxed. William was happy to see two lines of sweat running from his hair to his chin. Sarah had her sketchpad open, drawing Myra. Tom crouched by the stove, tending the pot. Myra was stretched out beneath some sunlight falling between trees, using her pack as a pillow. William straightened his legs and felt the pull behind his knees.

  Sarah, spoke, still drawing. “I’ll find the atlatl. I’m sure. We brought that rope so you could lower me down into the hole. I’ll find it.”

  “Why’d you take it, anyway?” Tom was stirring the lunch.

  “I was pissed. I didn’t want you to have it. Better it stay up there than be taken out of the park, taken away from Bob-Bob.”

  “Maybe it is better that you took it, Sarah,” said Tom. He finished heating the soup. They had their cups and spoons out. “If you hadn’t taken the atlatl when you disappeared, I’m sure Roger and his gang would have grabbed it. They were looking for it, I know that.”

  Myra removed her hat and sat up. “There’s a lot of money riding on this thing. A lot. People get nasty when the stakes are high.”

  After they ate, they descended off the high traverse to the river. The Elwha here was 50 feet wide, fast, and waist deep. They washed their bowls and spoons and filtered fresh water. William pictured a big bear swimming, silent. When Sarah saw whatever she saw, it was spring, not August, and the river was faster and deeper, the snowmelt high.

  Sergei dropped his pack, walked to the river and squatted. “Salmon?” He waved at the river. William joined him along the bank.

  Myra was crouched, washing her hands. She glanced up at Sergei, squinting in the sun. “There used to be. Once huge salmon runs used this whole watershed, the 50-mile river, all its tributaries. The biggest king salmon in the world lived here, 100 pounds apiece. Then they built two hydro dams to power the logging mills, blocking this run about eight miles from the strait. That was 100 years ago. Now the dams have been removed. Maybe the salmon will come back.”

  “Good trout fishing, though, in the upper river.” Tom had joined them. “Right, ‘Eye?”

  “You’ll see, Sergei,” William said. “Tonight, wherever we camp, you can try fishing. Find out if your Russian flies work here, on this side of the Pacific.”

  They lingered in the sun. The sun felt nice. William was happy to stay here as long as anyone wanted to. His feet hurt. His legs hurt.

  Sarah was drawing their packs, which lay on the ground. Sergei could see over her bent shoulders.

  “You can draw.”

  “I’m ok.”

  “No. You are an artist. William here showed me and my father copies of the drawings you did last trip. Myra, William, the spider web, the bear. You also copied the inscriptions on the atlatl handle.”

  “Maybe that’s all we’ll have, if I can’t find it. That and the tiny sliver.”

  “William left a copy of the atlatl inscriptions with my father, and he and I together did some work with them.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah closed her pad and waited.

  Sergei began to smile, sad. “My father and I had an enormous argument, right after William left us. My poor father was very weak, sick, but his spirit was as strong as ever. He had this idea, seeing those designs you drew. I thought his idea was foolish, but that was because in order to test his idea it would have to be me, in the lab, stealing computer time at the branch station in Petropavlosk. Oh, we argued, but, weak as he was, he still had that terrible cold shout which made me a three year old boy again.” Sergei looked out at the river, then up at the slopes. He leaned over, tapped William’s knee. “This is why I was on the bridge when we came in to St. Paul on the ship, William. I wanted to see the outline of the headland there, as soon as we could see it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Myra asked.

  “My father saw those inscriptions and immediately was reminded of another carving he had in his collection, a shoulder blade inscribed with what appeared to be the outline of a range in Kamchatka and the sun rising between two peaks, possibly at the summer
solstice. My father believed that ancient people knew the sun, the stars and seasons better than we think, and greatly depended on the solstices, the equinoxes.” Myra seemed confused, Tom blank. Sarah listened, waiting. “My father thought the inscriptions Sarah copied from the atlatl might have been drawings of horizon outlines, the sun.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sarah. “Exactly.”

  “Computer time?”

  “Tom, my father thought the outline on that shaft might be a headland, something one would see from a distance at sea, or over a plain. That morning when we came to St. Paul there was a moment when the lines on that copy I had from Sarah exactly matched the slopes and angles of the St. Paul headland, including the two small peaks. ”

  “There must be a million headlands all over the world that look similar,” said Myra. “It all depends on the angle of approach, the time of day, a million things.”

  “True. I felt that, as well.” Sergei paused. “But, with that terrible voice of his, my father sent me to the computer and demanded I make as many runs as I could. The goal was to plot where the sun rises between those mountains on St. Paul on that date.” Sergei reached in his pack and pulled out the copy of the atlatl drawings William had given him in Russia. “I did this for my father, but then for myself. I stole many hours from that computer. My father died just after you left, William, but I kept on.” Sarah opened her sketchpad to the original atlatl shaft drawings. “That St. Paul headland looks very like the outline on one side of that atlatl. My computer work showed that during the summer solstice, on June 21st, the sun rises directly between those peaks on that headland along a line that anyone coming east along the Berengia coast would have followed.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Myra, a group travelling to that headland would know they needed to be there by the solstice in order to have time to return, whether east or west, before the season turned and the ice came.”

  “This is from Sarah’s story?”