The skis hit the ice pack for the roughest landing DeClercq could recall. Those within were almost bounced out of their seats. The plane roared down the middle of the road as trees blurred by, branches unloading snow in its wake. The road was a washboard of ice heaves, and the shock absorbers were frozen.
"Fix 'em and fly 'em!" rodeoed Dodd, reining the Beaver to a halt. When the engine died, the only sound was a distant buzz of snowmobiles in the woods. The new call of the wild.
"Welcome to Gunanoot," the bushman said, climbing back to crack the door and let them out."I'll pick you up here this afternoon. Once I finish the milk run from Fort St. James."
They stood beside the road to watch Dodd take off. The pilot swiveled the plane around and fire-walled the throttle. Unless he achieved a takeoff speed of fifty-five mph quickly, he'd smash head-on into trees at a bend in the road. The skis cleared the treetops by what seemed like inches, and the Beaver banked over the mountains to the east.
The cavity of silence left when the engine noise faded was once again filled by the dentist's-drill buzz of snowmobiles.
Infernal machines, thought DeClercq.
In the years before the white man dismantled their culture, hereditary Gitxsan chiefs would meet guests in the great lodge now rotting by the river. Wolves on one side, Frogs on the other, House chiefs would be seated around the walls according to rank. The middle seat at back was for the head chief, since he held the highest rank with the most power. In Gunanoot this seat was for the lead Wolf. The next highest chiefs of the clans flanked him, the next highest chiefs flanking them, and so on around both sides of the lodge, Wolf by Wolf and Frog by Frog, ending with the lowest ranks by the door where guests came in. Guests sat where the head chief said.
A House chief, as part of his ceremonial regalia, had a rattle to call Gitxsan to a feast. The head chief had as many rattles as there were subchiefs, and one of his own. A head chief with seven rattles had six chiefs under him.
The lead Wolf wore a headdress called an amhalait. This had a carved wooden crest on front and was trimmed with ermine skins. The crown of the amhalait was filled with eagle down, and when the chief danced his dance of welcome for a guest, he bowed his head so mek-gaik fell on both. Eagle down symbolizes friendship and peace, so if mek-gaik falls on you, you must be peaceful. Around the fringe of his dance apron hung the hooves of unborn caribou. His button blanket trimmed with fur was draped over his shoulders. His neck ring of woven cedar bark sparkled with abalone shells. His ceremonial rattle was gripped in his right hand.
Except to dance, the lead Wolf never stood. Except for trouble, the lead Wolf never spoke. Instead, he had another chief stand and speak for him. Each chief owned a copper shield with his crest. The bigger the shield, the bigger the chief. A head chiefs speaker knew what to say, having been instructed before the gathering. If there was trouble, the head chief would speak to settle the matter. So not to cause harm by what he might say, a Gitxsan chief always "talked slow."
Now the only vestige left of how it used to be was this chief talking slow to DeClercq.
He was Chief Simgiget.
He was lead Wolf.
They met in the band office next to the Catholic church. Financed by Ottawa under the Indian Act, it was a white man's building with white man's furniture. The act was passed in 1876—the same year Custer made his last stand—to bring every aspect of native life under federal control. The chief was nearing eighty, wizened, and wise, with flinty eyes in a weathered face, and a hunched arthritic body in a sleeveless padded jacket. A baseball cap replaced his amhalait.
"The village is deserted. Where is everyone?"
"Gitanmaax," said the chief. "Did you not call a meeting of all our Houses?"
"Yes," said DeClercq. "With your chiefs. If those at Totem Lake don't come out peacefully, there will be bloodshed."
The chief nodded. "Gun nuts. Thugs. False mystics. It is shame they bring to us. We do not seize land. We do not block roads. We do not speak through a gun. Yet we look like militants who disobey your laws. These are not our people. Yet they, too, seize our land. They use our claim to make a name for themselves. Their sundance is no ceremony of mine. We have ceremonies of our own. They mock our traditions and show disrespect for us. I hear they have cans of nitrogen fertilizer in camp. Is that not what blew up in Oklahoma? Or do they intend to fertilize the snow?"
Simgiget eyed DeClercq shrewdly, sizing him up.
"There are chiefs at Gitanmaax. Chiefs you elected under your Indian Act. Why do you come to Gunanoot to speak to me?"
"Because you are hereditary chief of chiefs. What right have I to ignore that?"
"There was a time when there were no white men on our land, and in those days we had full possession of it. What you did should be the other way. Should we not measure off pieces for you, not you measure off pieces for us?"
"Yes," said DeClercq.
"You call us 'Indians' because Columbus thought he was in India when he 'discovered' us. We call you many names. To those who met Cook and Vancouver, 'Suddenly, they're here' and 'People who live in a boat' were how we saw you. 'Rich at the mouth of the river' described what you had. 'Hungry people' described what you sought from us. You were am sii wa, or 'white driftwood on the beach.' Do you not agree we named you truer than you named us?"
"Yes," said DeClercq.
"A lumberman asked my grandfather the price of his totem pole. He replied the cost was your statue erected to honor Governor Douglas. My grandfather saw the value of your monument. The lumberman didn't grasp the equal value of ours.
"I recall when your governor general came to watch us dance. He dressed in fringed buckskins that made our children laugh. He looked ridiculous. Are we a Plains tribe?
"Where the 'Xsan joins the Wa Dzun Kwuh at Gi-tanmaax, we built a village like what was there before you came. Six longhouses, with totem poles, fish traps, and dugout canoes. As we were planning the ceremony to open 'Ksan, one of you asked what we would do if it rained. 'You want to know what we'll do if it ranis?' I said. 'Yes, what if it rains on opening day?' 'We will wait,' I said, 'until it stops.' "
DeClercq laughed.
Simgiget nodded. "There is what separates us. I do not see the same world as you, and you refuse to listen to what I see."
"I'm listening," said DeClercq.
"You don't have a tin ear."
A woman brought them coffee and stoked the stove, fussing over her grandfather until he gently waved her away.
The coffee was strong and hot.
The stove popped from knots in the wood.
"Thousands of years ago as you count time, you say Mongolian nomads crossed an ice bridge to this land to become us. The truth is we were always here. Our ada'ox say the people and the land became together at Tarn Lax Aamid. The proof is in crests on our totem poles. The proof is on Picture Rock at Totem Lake. The proof is in the minds of our elders, who pass our history down from mouth to ear. Do these not chronicle our achievements from the beginning of time? You sing a national anthem that states: Oh, Canada, Our home and native land . . . Native land it is, and we want it back. What you call British Columbia wasn't lost in war, wasn't sold for a handful of beads, and wasn't given away. It was simply stolen," said Simgiget.
"From 1987 to 1991 we went to your courts to get it back. The judge told us to prove ownership of our land. When an elder tried to sing the ada'ox of her House, he cut her off with: 'This is a trial, not a performance. I have a tin ear, so it's not going to do any good to sing it to me.' Your hundred-year-old colonial court denied our claim. Ruling on our history was nasty, brutish, and short, while our ancestors were primitives with no concept of ownership. What is our feast about if not ownership? What is a totem pole if not a deed to our land?"
"I've seen the cartoon," said DeClercq. "The judge says, 'I can't hear your Indian song. I've got a tin ear.' The elder says, 'That's okay, your highness. I've got a can opener Her hand works the opener around the judge's ear, which is labeled Soup
."
"You stole our land, forbade us to fish, banned the potlatch, denied us the vote, made land claims illegal, and raped our kids. All our protests fall on tin ears, while you condemn us if someone takes direct action on the land."
This guy pulled no punches. DeClercq respected him.
"I want Totem Lake from you. What do you want from me?"
"Winterman Snow," the Mountie said.
The chief looked out the window at the church next door. "The Catholics were the first to acknowledge we had souls. Then came Anglicans, Methodists, Presbyterians, the United Church, and the Salvation Army. We were divided up into religious zones. Missionaries redefined us, and suddenly hunters with names tied to spirits of the woods were landless farmers with Chris-tian names. I was here when Bible Black took the boy."
"Reverend Noel?"
"Bible Black to me."
"The boy ran away from school?"
"And was returned."
"By Corporal Spann?"
Simgiget nodded.
"Then Winterman Snow ran away again and hid in the woods?"
"No," said the chief. "Winterman Snow stayed."
"He's not in school pictures."
"You can't photograph a ghost. Bible Black had his way with him, and the sickly boy threw himself into the river to escape."
"Winterman Snow is dead?"
"If that's how you see the world."
Standing in the shadow of the Catholic cross, Katt gazed down the slope to Gunanoot below, the Guna-noot of nature, of Wolves and Frogs, not this wolf in sheep's clothing above that ate souls. Sunbeams shone directly on the faces of the crests, lighting every detail for a camera lens, and every minute that passed robbed her of the perfect shot. So while she had promised Bob she'd stay close at hand, the precondition to his letting her come, what harm could there be in wandering through the nearly deserted village alone,' given the fact they both had cellular phones?
Katt sauntered down.
Nowhere, except on the Skeena and Nass, are totem poles found any distance inland. Totems in villages on the coast were spirited away, and now ornate museums in grave-robbing realms. The only collection of totem poles to remain fairly intact is that of the Git-xsan nation, decaying in isolated clusters of a few to over thirty in their villages. Her back to the frozen river, Katt moved sideways along the bank, snapping crest on crest up each pole. Ranging between fifteen and sixty feet high, the totems of the Gitxsan are among the tallest. Soaring against a background of glittering pinnacles, they ran the length of the village in an irregular row, some tottering precariously and creaking in the wind that blew down-valley from the north, others having already toppled and crashed. . .
creeek . . . creeek . . . creeek . . .
As Katt snapped shots of some of the 525 crests displayed by Gitxsan Houses, she yearned for a potlatch invitation so she could hear their stories. There were land creatures like the wolf, bear, beaver, and marten . . . sky creatures like the owl, raven, and thunderbird ... sea creatures like the killer whale, dogfish, and salmon . . . and mutant monsters like Half-way-out, Split-person, Three-beings-across, Sharp-nose, and People-of-the-smoke-hole . . .
. . . creeek . . . creeek . . . creeek . . .
Finished with the Wolf totems, Katt arrived at the longhouse. It had four corner posts carved into grizzly bears standing erect. The ridge beam of the lodge was carved like a salmon. The Frog poles beyond were carved in high and low relief. Native colors—red, yellow, black, and blue-green—once had decorated features like eyes, eyebrows, lips, and nostrils. Time had long since washed them away, but the paintbrush in Katt's mind dabbed them back. Not all the crests
. . . creeek . . . creeek . . .
were inherited. Some were
. . . creeek . . . creeek . . .
won by conquest. The great warrior Nekt was of the Frog-Raven clan, and Katt wondered
. . . creeek . . creeek . . .
if he had won some of these crests?
Camera to her eye, Katt caught sight of something circling her head.
A hand clamped her mouth before she could scream.
The psycho got Katt.
Bush Drifter
DeClercq came out of the band office to find Katt gone. So engrossed had he been talking with the Git-xsan chief that he'd lost track of time, and that Katt stood outside waiting for him. Obviously, she got bored with cooling her heels, and had wandered down to the village by the river to photograph totem crests. So he wandered down, too.
"Katt!"
No answer.
Hairs twitched on his neck.
"Katt!"
No answer.
Butterflies tickled his stomach.
"Katt!"
No answer.
Sweat trickled from his armpits.
With mounting unease he walked the length of the village from the lodge of the lowest Wolf almost to the lodge of the lowest Frog, where he found Katt's camera abandoned on the ground, and a spray of blood reddening the snow beside. He almost threw up. His hand was shaking as he withdrew the cell phone from his pocket, a "dedicated line" assigned to him by the Force, the number RCMP issue. For Christmas he had given Katt a cell phone of her own, which might seem to some an extravagance for a teen, but which he saw as a necessity in a world going insane.
Press one button to speed-dial 911, and call in the cavalry as you run for your life.
Blood and no call from Katt meant something horrid was going down. He turned on his phone and punched in her number and waited ten rings.
An answer.
No voice.
Just labored breathing.
"Katt?
"Katt!
"Ka—"
"Katt can't come to the phone." What sounded like a native voice. A soft monotone. "She may never come to the phone again."
"Don't hurt her!"
"Like you hurt me?"
"Not me."
"You. All redcoats are the same. Your pal returned me to the reverend's cock."
"It's me you want. Not her."
"Come, and she goes free. You and me. Man to man. In the land as it was before filth came. I'll give you what we were denied. A fighting chance."
"Is she dead?"
"Katt put up a fight. She will be if you don't do what I say. Try to trick and you find another daughter dead."
"Don't hurt her."
"Come, white man. Fly to Spirit Lake and have the pilot drop you at the mouth of Headless Valley. A river runs down the valley to fill the lake. Follow the river up on foot. Snowshoes. No gun. No radio. I'll see you. You won't see me. Any sign of backup, she dies. This is my land. I hear every sound."
The line went dead.
He called back.
No answer.
. . . creeek . . . creeek . . .
Above him totems creaked in the Arctic wind, and the shadows of ancient monsters danced about the bloody snow.
Jane, he thought.
My God!
Not again!
Had he raised Katt from birth, he would have said no No, you can't come to Gunanoot. It was only because she wasn't his daughter that he had capitulated, for he knew she was free to leave any time she desired, and so he'd ignored his better judgment to keep her happy with him.
He recalled what they had said at the airport when she returned from France by way of Boston to visit her real parent.
"How's your mom?"
"Sends her best. You're to look after me. And curb my excesses."
"You? Excesses?"
"That's what I said. But you know how out of touch mothers are."
DeClercq switched the cell phone for his portable VHF radio. Because the plane was chartered by the Force for Totem Lake, not only did Dodd's Beaver maintain VHF contact with air traffic control, but it was equipped with a VHF portable linked to the Mounties' transmitter for police calls.
"Dodd?"
"Ten-four."
The engine noise was so loud DeClercq could barely hear him.
; "Return to Gunanoot."
The transmission broke up. VHF requires a direct line of sight.
"Ten-nine." Repeat.
"Return to Gunanoot."
"But I gotta get the chief at Fort St. James."
"I'm countermanding that. I'm commandeering your plane. I'm chief superintendent. Now get your ass back here."
"Yes, sir!" said Dodd.
The forward doors of a Beaver are narrow and slant backward and up in their frames. A smooth hip swing and sharp knee bend are required to slip fluidly inside the cockpit. DeClercq bumped into everything as he climbed into the plane.
"Where to?" asked the pilot.
"The Nahanni."
"You're joking? That's Northwest Territories. We'd need extra fuel."
"Is there another Headless Valley?"
"Up by Spirit Lake."
"Near here?"
"Gunanoot Mountains. Where the Skeena springs. The north border of ancestral Gitxsan hunting grounds. West of Spatsizi Plateau."
"Let's go," said DeClercq.
Dodd hit the starter to send the propeller into a blurring arc. "H-T-M-P-F-S-C-G," he said to himself, to check hood, trim, manifold, primer . . . for a pre-takeoff ritual. Reaching right to the three-slotted power lever console just below the split between the front windows, the pilot pushed PROPELLER forward to "full fine" pitch for maximum rpm, and MIXTURE forward to "full rich" for lots of oomph, before he straight-armed THROTTLE to 36l/2 inches of manifold pressure to get them up fast to takeoff speed.
"Hang on," he shouted over the whine. "You're in for a bumpy ride."
DeClercq white-knuckled his seat.
Flaps down, the plane began to ski along the road. The washboard of frost heaves clacked DeClercq's teeth as the Wasp Junior engine shrieked with a banshee wail. Picking up speed, picking up speed, Dodd rocked the W-shaped handgrip atop the control column in front of him to elevate the tail, the bend in the road ahead rushing head-on. Then he pulled back on the stick slanting from the center of the floor to lift them off the ground and up over the oncoming trees.
Primal Scream Page 30