by Heacox, Kim
“I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of a canoe with outriggers and a deep keel like you’re talking about. Somebody could have given them a lift, you know.”
“Fred said that some guy said that a buddy of his talked to some guy who said they saw the Silverbow making her way west past Adolphus early this morning.”
“The Silverbow? What’s Marge doing at Adolphus when the Lisianski fleet’s working the Fairweather Grounds?”
“Hey, does anybody know what Marge is doing half the time?”
“Kenny Marston knows what she’s doing at least some of the time because he’s doing it with her.”
That brought a tide of cheap replies. Paul switched the radio back to channel sixteen as Ruby sat down. Anne watched her write Silverbow in her iPhone, then begin texting. Paul stepped onto the aftdeck and Anne heard him say, “How are you doing, Gracie? Can I get you anything?”
Anne watched Ruby answer her cell phone. Soon Paul and Taylor were on their cell phones. Only Gracie remained, still facing the sea. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said softly as Anne joined her. “The sea, how it picks up the clearing storm, the sky blue and black. See the way the light moves through the clouds this time of year? It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
The last day of August. Cottonwoods beginning to turn gold. Geese kettling their way home. Phalaropes spinning about. Young gulls diving for fish, feasting on the final bounty of summer. Somewhere below, a whale. Somewhere above, a raven.
Anne heard Paul talking about a possible aerial hunt for the canoe . . . a dragnet across the entrance into Crystal Bay . . . spotters on Feldspar Peak . . . nothing so far. . . .
Anne smiled to herself. All these rangers searching for the boy Ron predicted would end up flipping burgers at McDonald’s, out there with his grandfather. What must it be like for a mother with an overstuffed heart to look into her son’s eyes and see the universe, all that light and possibility, all the darkness and room for things to go wrong? Anne asked Gracie, “Are you scared?”
“No.”
“When was the last time a Tlingit from Jinkaat paddled a canoe into Crystal Bay?”
“Oh my . . . a long time ago.”
It wasn’t Gracie’s voice that Anne heard just then, it was Nancy’s, soft in the bedroom late at night, speaking low as sisters do when they’re supposed to be asleep. Nancy, three years older than Anne, had written a school report on Captain Cook, and told Anne that when the great explorer first arrived on the Big Island, he sighted a hill the Hawaiians called Mauna Loa. That’s what it looked like, a hill. Cook ordered a company of men to go climb it. The men returned days later, footsore and weary, and reported that after all that travel on black volcanic rock, the hill appeared no closer than it had before. It wasn’t a hill. It was a mountain, a great shield volcano ten times taller and farther away than Cook had assumed. The geography was so new to him, the land and distances so difficult to comprehend that he gave goofy orders. Anne and Nancy laughed about that. Captain Cook. Goofy orders. They giggled themselves silly. All these years later, Anne wondered if the great captain held out his hand at arm’s length, and measured it. Did he cover the trickster hill with his finger, as a space-walking astronaut might one day cover Africa? Are we any wiser today than we were two centuries ago?
It isn’t the object that deceives. It’s the eye.
Paul was still on his cell phone, talking about the search, when Anne said to Gracie, “I met your father once.”
Gracie stared at her.
“I was eight. My sister and I were in a skiff off Shelter Island and got caught in a storm and –”
“Oh, my gosh, that was you? You were the little girl he saved?”
“Yes.”
“And your sister—she died?”
“Yes. Nancy.”
“I remember that. Oh, my gosh. Pops was written up in the papers for that.”
“Was he? I don’t remember.”
“You were probably in shock, you poor thing, losing your sister like that.”
Ruby stepped from the wheelhouse. “I just got off the phone with Channel Four in Juneau. They’re flying out to Strawberry Flats and will be here in two hours. Gracie, you and I are scheduled to give a press conference. Paul, I’d appreciate it if you could drop us at the dock and help us arrange transportation to the city library, that’s where we’ll be interviewed.”
“A press conference,” Gracie said, “about what?”
“About the safe return of our father and your son. We need to ask local communities to help us find and return the people we love. It’s nasty weather out there, they have no protection. And somebody needs to apprehend the Gant brothers, or give us a tip about where they are, where they’re headed. They’re wanted for arson. They could be dangerous.”
Gracie took a deep breath, as if what she was about to say would take everything she had. “Dad spent hundreds of hours in open boats when he was a kid, Ruby. You know that. It made him who he is today. He’s fine.”
Ruby didn’t protest, as Anne thought she would. Instead, she hung her head.
Gracie said, “Remember all his stories about time in a wooden boat with Uncle Austin? I’ll bet he’s more alive right now than he’s been in a long time.”
“He’s not a kid anymore, Gracie. He’s an old man. He gets cold and confused and he’s always in pain, sometimes acute pain with his arthritis, especially when he’s cold.”
“It’s August, not January.”
“And blowing a gale, and almost September.”
“He’s a tough old man, tougher than you think.”
“And if he dies?”
“Then he’ll die doing what he loves.”
“And his death will be on our hands, Gracie. Please, do this with me. Help me find him.” Tears welled up in Ruby’s eyes.
Gracie said softly, “Isn’t this what you want? An old Tlingit headed home in the old way, with his grandson and his favorite dog?”
“Not like this.”
“He is going to die one day. You know that, right? He can’t live forever, none of us can.”
Ruby rocked back. Paul reached out, but she recovered and said, “Gracie, I’m going to do this press conference, and I’d . . . I’d like to have you with me, okay? Please, do this with me.” She stepped back into the wheelhouse to make another call. Paul joined her.
Taylor fired up the Firn and began to motor toward the Strawberry Flats Public Dock, less than a mile away.
Gracie stood and faced the sea, her hands on the gunwale, fingers strangely purple and swollen, face drawn, eyes sad. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” she said. “This journey, this life.”
“Yes,” Anne said.
“I told my sister once that she’s just an angry Indian, beneath all her bluster, so high and mighty, that’s all she is, an angry Indian. She’s much more accomplished than me. She has a good husband, a strong marriage, lots of fancy titles and degrees. I guess I’m a little jealous. Maybe a lot jealous. I don’t know. But she’s at war with herself, and it’s sad, it breaks my heart. You know what I told her once? I told her that she lives in resentment, and it’s eating her alive, it makes her bitter and blind. She’s so resentful.”
“What’d she say?”
“She resented it.”
They laughed. The next thing Anne knew, Gracie was leaning into her.
“You’re lucky, you really are,” Anne told her, “to have such a good father.”
“I know . . . I just wish they’d let him go wherever it is he feels he needs to go, in his canoe, his last canoe. I just wish they’d let him go.”
“So do I.”
“Then do it,” Gracie said, suddenly facing Anne. “You have a boat. You have authority. You have free will. Help him.”
“I have something else, too.”
“What?”
“A debt to repay.”
jimmy bluefeather
DAWN WAS HOURS away when a seine skiff throttled deep and l
ow through the darkness toward the Silverbow. James told Keb to get his things together. They might have to move soon, push off in the canoe. Keb tried to think: Get things together? Dry socks? Do I have my dry socks?
Marge signaled Morgan and Quinton to kill the running lights as she monitored her VHF radios. Several times other vessels had hailed her and she refused to respond. When the skiff came alongside, she said, “Wait here,” and went out on deck to have her rendezvous.
Keb could hear the shadows of things said between her and the man in the seine skiff, but not the things themselves. From the expressions of James and Kid Hugh, they didn’t get the words either, and this made them nervous. Was the Silverbow adrift? Keb tried to remember the anchor chain going down. He stepped outside and approached Marge.
James reached for him, “Gramps, don’t—”
“Hey, Keb, is that you?” a voice called from down in the skiff. Keb stopped. “It’s me, Cobb. Cobb Reed.” The man climbed up the metal ladder and shook Keb’s hand. Keb wondered: Do I know Cobb Reed? As they stepped into the galley, Cobb said, “We have to talk. We don’t have much time. It’s good to see you, Keb. Everybody’s talking and taking bets.”
“Taking bets?” Little Mac asked.
“On you, Keb. Where you are, where you’re headed in your canoe, if you’re okay—you know, still alive.”
“He’s alive,” James said.
“I can see that. Damn, it’s good to see you. So, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your destination?”
Keb didn’t like this Cobb man. His eyes were too close together, his teeth too far apart. He smelled like fish, and bobbed his greasy head when he spoke. He had a voice like a forklift, a prying mind.
Nobody answered him.
“No matter,” Cobb said. “They’re onto you. They know you’re on this fishing tender.”
Kid Hugh stepped outside to stand guard.
“How?” Marge asked. “How could they know that?”
“Somebody saw you yesterday morning cruising west past Adolphus. It seemed weird, so they called it in. Now everybody’s talking on the VHF, channels sixty-eight, sixty-nine, and seventy-two, mostly.”
“I monitor those channels and have heard nothing. What’s so weird about me steaming west past Adolphus?”
“Shit, Marge, everything. You bought fish three days ago and haven’t bought or sold any since. You gotta be low on ice and maybe low on fuel.”
“I’ve got lots of ice and fuel.”
“Well, you’re thirty miles from the Lisianski fleet and missing the biggest coho opening in weeks. That’s weird, and you know it.” Cobb turned to Keb. “Everybody’s on high alert looking for you, Keb. You’re like a hero, you know, like a cult hero or a folk hero or some damn thing.”
“I don’t want to be a hero.”
“Too late. You already are.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because you carved a canoe and got everybody involved, and pushed off like Tlingits used to do a thousand years ago, before the world got crazy with television and Twinkies.”
Keb shrugged.
“They’re worried about you, that you might freeze or drown or fall off a cliff. Your daughter Ruby is all over radio and TV, asking for your safe return. The Crystal Bay rangers want to catch you and make sure you’re okay. But I have to tell you, a lot of people, folks like me, we want to help you. We really do. We want to help you get wherever it is you want to go.”
“We don’t need any help,” James said.
Cobb shrugged. Little Mac sidled up to Keb and put his withered hand into hers.
“Why?” Keb asked. “Why do people want to help me?”
“I don’t know,” Cobb said. “You’re the little guy, I guess, and people want to help the little guy. But you’re also a big guy, the old man whose house got burned down but he doesn’t sit around and mope about it. I mean, everybody talks about Crystal Bay being a traditional homeland, but nobody—nobody—gets in a canoe and goes back there in the traditional way. You see? You’re like a blast from the past. That’s why you got everybody stirred up; a lot of people want to help you. Me too. I thought you could use my help, is all. If I’m wrong, I apologize and I wish you luck. I hope you get back to wherever it is you want to go.” He turned to leave.
“Back,” Keb said.
Cobb spun around. “Back, really?”
“Yes, back.”
“Back to where, Keb?”
“Back . . . back to the way it used to be.” Keb could feel himself standing taller.
“That’s where you want to go?”
“Yes.”
“That could be a long journey, you know? You don’t remember me, do you?”
Keb did remember him a little, maybe. Was he related to Father Mikal? The friend of a cousin? The cousin of a friend?
“You and Bess took my brother and me berry picking when we was kids.”
“Nagoons?”
“Wild strawberries.”
“Oyyee . . . shákw . . . put up with salmon eggs, kanéegwál.”
“What about the Gants?” James asked Cobb. “Has anybody seen Tommy or Charlie Gant?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have they been arrested or anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
Marge said, “We have to go. It’ll be daylight in a couple hours, and we have some distance to cover.”
Cobb said, “Keb, if there’s anything I can do, any way that I can help, you tell me right now.”
“Gracie,” Keb said to Cobb. “My girl, Gracie. I need you to tell her not to worry about me, not to worry about James, any of us. She’s sick. I don’t want her to worry. Tell her not to worry. We are fine. We are good. Can you tell her that?”
“I’ll tell her,” Marge said, “after I drop you off. I’ll reach her by marine dispatch.”
Little Mac squeezed Keb’s hand.
Cobb said, “I have to go.” He disappeared into the liquid night, only after Kid Hugh made him promise to keep his mouth shut. Marge banged on a pipe and Quinton came into the galley. Or maybe it was Morgan. She flashed her fingers and the boy bounded into the wheelhouse. A minute later the Silverbow was underway, twin diesels pumping big pistons. Graves Harbor was out of the question now. Too far.
Marge began packing food into a tote. “I’m making you a care package.” Her other son came into the galley, moving fast. He smiled at Little Mac, grabbed a bag of tortilla chips, and was gone.
“Was their father deaf?” Little Mac asked Marge.
“No. He heard everything just fine, except me.”
“So your boys, do you know why—”
“Why they’re deaf? No. Their father said the devil made them that way. I sometimes envy them their silence, you know, how peaceful it must be in there, not having to hear all the crap we have to hear. I can’t see either of them ever finding a woman or having kids. But you never know. They might surprise me one day. I’d like that.” She paused as chatter spilled across the VHF radio.
Keb was still thinking about wild strawberries.
Marge looked at him with such sadness that everything vague a minute ago came into sharp focus. What a powerful, sorry thing she was, this woman, fallen on a thousand thorns, picked up, and fallen again.
James said to her, “You’ve been good to us. We’ll get off now, with our canoe. We can paddle hard and put good water between you and us before dawn.”
“No need,” Marge said. “I’ve got a plan.”
AN HOUR LATER, as soft light broke to the east, they made landfall at a place called George Island, between Cross Sound and the small fishing town of Elfin Cove. While Morgan used one skiff to take Keb, James, Little Mac, and Steve the Lizard Dog ashore, Quinton used the other skiff to pull the canoe into a deep cleft in a nearby cliff, where he and Kid Hugh buoyed it out of sight, impossible to see from the air. From the water, too. Marge gave them the tote with three days of food. She told James to take care of his grandpa.
She told Little Mac, “I’m sorry. I wanted to help you, all of you.”
“You have.”
James said to Little Mac, “If you want to stay on the Silverbow, you can. We’ve talked about it.”
Little Mac was taken aback by this, Keb could see. Steve wagged his tail as if he’d been in on the discussion too, and was prepared to man a paddle—the canoeing dog. Little Mac appraised James. “You don’t want me along?”
“I do. I just don’t want you to be wet and cold and frightened.”
“I’m not.”
“You might be, in the days to come. We plan to paddle at night.”
“That’s fine. I’m strong. I can paddle. I want to go, James.”
“Okay, you go.”
“James?” Marge said abruptly. “Is that your real name?”
“It’s my dad’s name. He wanted me to have his name.”
“He’s Apache,” Keb said.
“Arapaho,” James corrected him.
“This might offend you,” Marge said, “but James is the kind of name a shithead English king would have, don’t you think? Have you got a Tlingit name?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not use it.”
“I did, for a while. The missionaries took our language away.”
“Keeeeerist, you can’t blame the missionaries no more. They bullyragged your people a hundred years ago, but no more.”
“I’m not blaming the missionaries, I’m just—”
“You’re just ready for a new name. Look, I believe in you. Your life excites me, with all its possibilities. It excites other people too. Go out there. Move at night, like you said. Paddle far. Be sneaky. Use every advantage you can; don’t let the rangers find you. Go where you need to go. Listen to your grandfather. Go where he needs to go. Take this beautiful girl and get your language back. Maybe use your Tlingit name on this journey. Have you thought about that?”
“I used to use my Tlingit name when I was a little kid.”
“Then use it again, if that’s what you’re trying to be, a real Tlingit.”
“That’s what Gramps is trying to be.”
“Well, he’s not alone. Would either one of you be on this journey without the other? Did he carve the canoe, or did you?”