* * *
THOMAS SQUATTED IN the hollow of a buttressed cedar. Sixteen was the number of trees that were not cedars. One was pointing its finger. Thomas tried not to stare at this one. The sound of the river began with a roar and ended with a hiss, and the sounds were perfectly balanced to Thomas’s ears, but he wished he could hear more hiss. He wanted to be in the hiss, so he made his way down the hill to the mouth of the canyon, where he met the shallow bank and followed the river around the rugged tangle of a bend that was not yet called Crooked Thumb. Here the river eddied and swirled and hissed, and the roar was further off up the canyon where it belonged.
Thomas squatted on a smooth wet rock until dusk, fingering water-filled dimples in the surface of the stone, tickling the moss with his toes, and listening for voices in the hiss as his lips moved silently over words that came out of nowhere. His grandfather swore that the silent words were stories trying to get out. Indian George Sampson said they were spirit voices whispering inside of him. Thomas did not question the meaning of the words. The words were to the boy like a clock ticking inside of him, marking the days of his life, so that looking back, these days were not invisible, they were a record, a history, a proof. The Potato Counter had his books full of numbers and schedules. Thomas had his silent words.
LEANING AGAINST THE half cabin, Ethan’s body grew cold with inactivity, and his teeth began to clatter as dusk settled in. He set to work making camp with his good hand. Finding no shortage of dead-fall along the wooded fringes, mostly alder and spruce, he soon dried his boots and warmed his aching thumb by a raging fire. He used his last biscuit to make a poultice with snow water; he battered his hand with it and wrapped it in a sock so he wouldn’t have to look at it. And again it was not long before he forgot the injury altogether beneath the roar of the Elwha. When he was no longer certain whether he was asleep or awake, he made a bed of spruce boughs inside his roofless cabin and lay on his back exhausted but not beleaguered. Aching but not miserable. Half asleep but fully awake to all of life’s possibilities.
ETHAN STIFFENED UPON hearing the first holler, for that’s what it sounded like, a deep holler, or a howl, clearly audible over the rushing Elwha. Then a series of whoops not unlike an owl’s. They seemed to originate from the far side of the chasm, somewhere up the hillside. After the second holler, he bolted upright beneath his wool blanket. But it was not until the third call garnered a surly response from the near side of the chasm that Ethan found himself clutching the Winchester in his good hand.
He sat rigid and silent for the better part of a half hour, as the two calls volleyed back and forth over the chasm, drawing closer to one another as they moved downriver, until it seemed the near call came from no more than fifty feet directly behind Ethan on the bluff, and its counterpart answered from just over the gap. Ethan took the sock off his hand and eased his head up over the log wall like a prairie dog, leveling his rifle at the night. He heard what sounded like guttural voices whispering in tongues all about him in the canyon, a confusion of voices that seemed at once to circle the canyon and the inside of his head, and he wondered again whether he was asleep or awake, until he heard something large clatter through the nearby brush on a downriver course. And in that moment, Ethan felt the pale flame in his stomach flicker.
He had a good mind to squeeze off a blind round into the night, to dispatch a thunderclap of human braggadocio and send it echoing through the valley like a challenge, but somehow he could not summon the nerve. Instead, he coaxed the glowing coals and fed them until they raged, then squatted by the glow of the fire, holding his rifle. Never had Ethan felt quite so alive.
becoming
DECEMBER 1889
On the eve of the party’s final ascent to base camp, where they would cache the last of their supplies before taking aim at the rugged interior, Mather and his men enjoyed venison steaks at the Olympic before crossing the muddy hogback to the colony for a night of theater at the Pioneer, where a certain burlesque musical extravaganza — having enjoyed its inauspicious debut at Wallack’s Lyceum Theatre some four decades prior — enjoyed a warm reception from colonists and a few Port Bonitans alike.
At intermission, Eva and Mather retired to the drafty foyer, where a twelve-piece cornet band honked its way through the “Washington Post March,” moving Mather to comment that the band sounded a bit gassy tonight.
“You seem amused by our efforts, Mr. Mather,” said Eva.
“I confess, I am slightly. While I admire the spirit of it, I really do, I just think that …”
“And what spirit is that?”
Mather took a quick inventory of his general surroundings. The plank floor protested beneath his shifting weight. “Optimism, I suppose.”
Eva found herself appraising Mather’s beard, and the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, and for no reason at all she thought of Ethan. “The opera house will be on a much grander scale,” she assured him.
“That’s not what I mean,” said Mather.
“What do you mean, then?”
“I see a general lack of organization at work here. I see women, children, and tradesmen, but I don’t see anyone swinging an ax. I see them painting landscapes. I should think that before I put up an opera house, I’d put that mill to better purpose and get some industry in place. And I’d do something about those natives. They may look it, but they’re not beaten yet.”
“We’re not trying to beat them, Mr. Mather.”
“What, then? Join them?”
“They may join us, if they wish. Or we can simply coexist.”
Mather smiled. “Nice of you to think so.” Against his will, his gaze wandered again to Eva’s swollen belly, which never failed to stir and confuse him.
Equally stirred and confused, Eva pulled her shawl about her.
Mather scanned the foyer for occupation. “I was given to understand that you were leaving for … Chicago, was it?”
“No,” she said. “I believe I’m digging in, for better or worse.”
“Mm.”
“I have more faith in women, children, and tradesmen than you do,” she said, turning from him slightly. “Not all of us were built to wander.”
“Ah,” said Mather doubtfully.
Eva could feel his eyes upon her, as she presumed to search the lobby for someone or something. And indeed, Mather’s eyes were upon her, and his imagination compelled him further still. Where exactly was the grace in this defiant little woman, with her sleek jaw and thin neck and distended belly, if not in her defiance itself, in the challenge it presented him with.
“And the railroad?” he inquired.
“It will come,” she said. “Sooner than later. They’re setting up new offices in town.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. But I’ve heard the same in Port Townsend and New Dungeness.”
“You doubt it?”
Mather cursed himself for not leaving the subject alone, for never resisting the urge to conquer expectation. “I’ve been wrong before, and it’s cost me a good deal of trouble and embarrassment. And I’ll probably be wrong again someday. Still, I see no logical reason why Seattle shouldn’t be the hub.”
“And build this hub out of rubble?”
“Still, Seattle is a town, with all due respect. Don’t think a fire is going to hold a town like Seattle down. They have electricity. They have banks. They’re not printing their own money.”
“Perhaps not. But then Seattle hasn’t our wealth in unknown quantities, either. You yourself called this place a gateway not two days ago.”
“Yes, but gateway to what, to where? There’s rugged country out there. I’m guessing as rough as anything I ever encountered on the Mackenzie or anywhere else. That’s no barrier range, Miss Lambert, whatever it is. And should this wilderness not surrender its bounty, what then? What becomes of this place?”
“Then, I suppose, we have no choice but to be a gateway to ourselves.”
Throughout the second half of the show Mather snuck sidelong
glances at Eva in the half-light, watching the quick, sharp proceedings of her mind in each frown and smile. His favorite expression was anticipation, for in those moments when her mind was suspended and awaiting, her little mouth stuck open in the act of flowering, and her eyes wide with innocence, the overall effect was childlike and charming. And when, during a moment of anticipation, he ventured to set his hand on hers in the warmth of her lap, she did not object.
After the show, Mather insisted on seeing Eva home by the light of his lantern. As they wended their way down the path, both were in high spirits.
“You’re not afraid of the Thunderbird, Mr. Mather?”
“I should like to see his nest. And I fully intend to by spring.”
Occasionally, their shoulders grazed one another as they walked.
“What spirit drives you to these enterprises, if I may ask?”
“You might be surprised,” he said.
“Very well, surprise me, then.”
“What if I told you humility.”
“Ha!” said Eva. “I would have hardly guessed. I might have guessed vanity.”
“There is that also, I won’t deny it. And adventure and the promise of wealth. But more than anything, there is humility. Nature is not easy to conquer. She has a competitive spirit. She will humble you, Miss Lambert, and I’ve found that when she does, a man can be quiet in his heart. Besides, I like a challenge. And what’s become of the father of your child?”
Eva felt her face go hot. “Pardon me, but I don’t see where that’s your concern.”
“Perhaps not. Except that not ten minutes ago you were holding my hand.”
For a silent moment they walked down the path in a puddle of light. Eva could feel her will weakening toward Mather, just as sure as she could feel the broadness and warmth of his big body beside her.
“Nothing has become of him, if you must know. He purports to be in the process of becoming as we speak.”
“Becoming what?”
“That I cannot answer. But I trust he has the will to become something.”
“Never underestimate the will,” said Mather.
Just before the fork in the path, a young Indian woman overtook them and proceeded down the path toward the beach.
“Thomas!” she shouted. “Can qeyen ceq!”
Eva and Mather cut off to the right, soon arriving at Eva’s doorstep, where Mather offered her an elbow up the steps.
AFTER MATHER LEFT Eva at her doorstep on the eve of his departure, he found himself adrift in the night, in no hurry to return to the Olympic, where he knew sleep would not have him. Instead, he wandered down the path, his thoughts focused inward toward some uncharted awareness.
How do we measure our lives, Mr. Mather?
That depends upon who we are, Miss Lambert.
And who are you, Mr. Mather?
It struck Mather, as he drifted further down the path, that despite all of his discoveries, despite his ceaseless charge at the unknown, all of his endless plotting and mapping and naming, he was willfully lost in himself. What was all of this exploration, this restless trek onward, if not cowardice dressed up in snow shoes? Fear with a hundred-pound bundle on its back. What was the purpose of his exploration, if not escape?
FROM HER PLACE at the window, Eva watched Mather’s retreat, wondering what it was that so compelled her about this man. God forbid, it was those same qualities that repulsed her: his hulking sturdiness, his feral beard, his appetites. Was it that he charged at the unknown like a billy goat? That he was so unconcerned with the delicacies of convention, that he spoke frankly at all times? Or was it as rudimentary as the confidence in his stride and the bedrock of his convictions?
Eva scolded herself for this line of thinking and turned her thoughts obediently toward Ethan, who already might well have frozen to death or drowned for all she knew. Yet she could not bring herself to worry about him, for Ethan Thornburgh was nothing if not resilient. Landslides may rumble in his wake, rivers may flood behind him, but Ethan would emerge unscathed. The thought of him brought a smile to her face. Was Ethan not blessed with his own rugged brand of optimism? Was it not his good intentions more than any weakness of character that accounted for his follies? Was there not a great deal of sincerity beneath his toe-wiggling, mustachioed charm? And was he not eager to forge a path for his son, to build himself into an example? Wasn’t he throwing himself fearlessly into the unknown, just as sure as James Mather?
Turning from the darkened window, Eva lit a candle and replaced it on the mantel, then perched on the edge of the divan and draped her shawl about her shoulders, resting her hands on the warmth of her belly.
BENEATH THE BOAT SHED, Mather leaned on a scaffold and loaded his pipe. A hundred yards in front of him, the bonfire still cast a dancing yellow glow on the Pioneer. The night rang with laughter, and sing song, and the conspiratorial tones of a community with big plans. But Mather did not wonder at their conversation, nor long for the fellowship of any man. Had he been standing on the wayward side of the Olympics, he could not have felt more remote. Nor could he have felt less compelled toward his own future.
And who are you, Mr. Mather? What spirit drives you?
* * *
FOR ALMOST TWO DAYS, Hoko did not see Thomas, but this was not unheard of, even in winter. She could not prevent his wanderings. Once, when Thomas was barely six, Hoko had followed the boy up-creek for the better part of two miles. He moved like a nimble shadow through the forest. She often lost sight of him. She thought she had lost him for good where the creek met the river in a bubbly confluence, only to discover him standing twenty feet behind her. The journey home had been a dance, with Hoko leading, only to find that she was following, stopping, only to find that he had already stopped, and when she arrived back at the fire, she found him there, squatting on his haunches, his lips silently at work.
Other times, his wanderings did not take him so far. Hoko would find him in the yard behind the Olympic Hotel, standing on a log, with his head tilted sideways and one eye covered, or pacing the dock with uneven strides, counting the planks and stepping over cracks. Sometimes she found him tracing circles in shallow water with a stick, or picking up stones along the strait, only to reorient them on the shoreline. But more often than not as of late, she found him shadowing one white man or another through town.
On the third day of Thomas’s absence, Hoko lost her appetite. Late that evening, when the snow began to fall in earnest, gathering in drifts along the low bank of Hollywood Beach, she cursed herself, and cursed Thomas, and left the fire in search of him.
Front Street was only shadows and a pale orange flicker burning behind curtained windows as Hoko skirted the creek and ducked beneath the boardwalk calling for Thomas among the jumble of pilings. She could feel the thrum of life up the street in the darkness from the Belvedere, where white men gathered at all hours without occasion. As the buzz of activity grew nearer, her thoughts grew fainter. She passed two white men leaning in the doorway, speaking gruffly in low tones. When she felt their gaze upon her, she was a stranger to herself.
She crossed the stumped and rutty hogback in the snow. Beyond the hulking boat shed, the Pioneer Theater was bathed in the glow of a large bonfire, ringed with the sawtooth shadows of a dozen people hunkered around it. From down the path, Hoko could discern the uneven cascade of their voices woven with laughter, and the popping of the fire. The little theater was still emptying its restless cargo into the street as Hoko approached. Women were fastening their bonnets, and men were unpocketing their pipes, and children were catching snowflakes on their tongues in a swathe of yellow light.
When Hoko passed through their midst, all but the children paused in their tracks and stopped laughing, and no man tipped his hat. Cutting back along the Hollywood shore, she found the canoes pulled further upbeach than usual. The snow was not sticking on the shoreline, though it was accumulating in the wooden boats. An icy wind was knifing off the strait, and the fires burned slantwise with
the force of each gust. Hoko could feel the rumble of the tide beneath her step, as she scanned the perimeter of each fire for Thomas, with no success.
She came upon Abe Charles squatting alone by his fire. As always, he was dressed like a white: laced leather boots and a wide-brimmed hat, a shirt of Scotch wool, and a buckskin jacket. He had a pipe in his pocket, and a rifle at his side.
“I’m looking for my boy,” said Hoko.
Abe spit into the fire and it hissed. He looked up at the swirling snow. “The spirits are running about,” he observed.
No matter how Abe cultivated his whiteness outwardly, he was still hopelessly Indian in his superstitions, a fact Hoko registered with impatience. “Have you seen him?”
“Maybe he’s chasing them.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No. But I saw your father, and I thought I saw a ghost.”
Without comment, Hoko left Abe squatting by the fire and continued west. She could feel his sad eyes on her back as she trudged along the strait crunching clam shells. When she reached the mouth of the Elwha, she hiked upriver along the rocky bank the short distance to her father’s home, a weather-beaten structure, part cabin, part shack, sagging beneath the weight of its roof. There was a time when the boy’s wanderings brought him regularly to his grandfather’s, where the boy would keep silent company with the old man, seated on the porch for hours, watching the tree line undulate, and listening to the crows gathered in the maples. It was her father who taught the boy to build fish traps in Ennis Creek, and string nets, her father who told him the stories of Kwatee and the Great Spirit, and Thunderbird, her father who filled the boy’s head with words. But that was before her father began looking for answers in bottles. When the boy returned one afternoon with bruises and scrapes, Hoko forbid him to visit his grandfather. Yet the boy continued his visits, almost daily, in spite of her will, until the day he returned with a fat lip and a knot on his forehead. After that, the boy stopped his visits completely.
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