What did I tell you? Well, they can stare all they want. I’m just grateful that I won’t have to listen to any “ginger” jokes.
Two of the littlest cousins keep coming up to me and touching my hair, then they run away laughing and whispering to each other, making it some sort of game. The third time that they get close, I reach out and tickle the smallest one, a little boy with fat smiling cheeks and black hair falling in front of his eyes. He collapses into my lap, laughing and squealing with excitement. Why is it that little kids are never as suspicious as grown-ups are? These little kids couldn’t care less that I’m different. In a second, the other little guy jumps on me as well, and they both dissolve into fits of giggles. The same little boy fiddles with the zipper on my backpack, and it’s not long before he discovers my lime green iPod Nano. He turns it over and over in his hands and, in no time at all, everybody else is gathered around him, straining to get a better look. Yisella pushes through the crowd and takes the iPod from the little boy.
“What is this?” she asks me, uncurling the tangle of ear-buds plugged into the top. How am I going to explain this? I think for a minute, then I remember what my dad always says. Show, don’t tell. Dad says it’s the most important rule for a writer to obey — okay, so it’s a writer thing. I stand up and carefully put the earbuds into Yisella’s ears. She doesn’t try to take them out, but just stands there patiently, not moving a muscle. I take the iPod out of her hand and scroll through my main playlist. I decide on “Yellow” by Coldplay, set the volume, and then watch as the biggest smile I’ve seen yet from Yisella spreads across her face. Everyone wants to try and it’s hard work organizing a turn for each one of them. They talk excitedly, one to another, and hold their hands over their ears. The little kids jump around in circles. One of the older men looks completely muddled but he still nods his head in time with the music. I can’t help laughing to myself as I watch him. Eventually I’m able to turn it off and put it away.
With the iPod back in my backpack, the children decide that it’s time to chase the little grey cat, or “Poos” as the villagers call it. We all sit down once again on the floor of the longhouse, and I’m relieved to see that pretty much everyone is more at ease with me now.
Soon everyone is busy with something. I’m not sure what to do next, so I decide to, literally, twiddle my thumbs. When Yisella points to a bowl on the mat next to where I’m sitting, I reach down and hand it to her. It’s a shallow burnished dish made from a maple tree burl. I recognize the dark and grainy wood that’s often used to make clocks and stuff, like the ones I’ve seen in souvenir stores. Moments later, Yisella hands it back, only now it’s filled with a wonderful sweet-smelling concoction, made of what looks like dried blackberries, topped with frothy pink creamy stuff. Even though I’m not exactly showing the best table manners, I scoop some up with the end of my finger and then lick it off. It’s surprisingly delicious and kind of like whipped cream! I wonder how they make it? There’s no ice cream here or frozen yogurt. There aren’t any refrigerators or freezers, and no way are there any chocolate bars or candies.
When Yisella looks over, I smile and lick my lips, pointing at my bowl. She laughs and says, “That’s sxhwesum berry. Tiny berries that turn into a big frothy foam when they are stirred over and over. We make it for our special celebrations. The children love it the most, especially now that the hwunitum are here.”
“Hwunitum. The white people? Why?” I ask, wondering how their arrival into the wilds of the island could make this treat taste any more delicious!
“The hwunitum sometimes bring us sugar. We give them rabbit pelts and they give us sacks of sugar. The sugar mixed with sxhwesum berry is especially good!”
“Ohhhh!” Now I understand, and agree. “Yeah, sugar’s the best! I know someone who bakes a lot of delicious stuff with sugar and flour.”
“Yes, flour too! Flour and sugar,” Yisella says enthusiastically “We trade rabbit pelts for both of these things. A while ago, a white woman showed my auntie how to make bannock bread.”
I remembered that my dad made some bannock bread in a heavy cast-iron frying pan over an open fire when we went camping last summer. We poured blueberry syrup all over the warm slabs of bread, and ate about ten pieces each for dinner.
Now that everyone has finished the meal, they gather and sit quietly around a big fire in the corner fire pit, waiting expectantly. The older women settle the smaller children, shushing them while taking the littlest ones onto their laps. I watch as Yisella places a woven cedar mat onto the ground near her mother.
“Yisella,” I whisper, “what’s happening? Why is everyone sitting in a circle?” I sit on the ground next to Yisella, together with Nutsa and their mother, Skeepla, on the cedar mat.
“It’s time for the Nahnum, the fire circle.” She explains, “Usually we do this in wintertime, but you are my guest, our guest, and so today is special. The Nahnum is when the elders teach us things and we get to hear stories of the old times. It is good for us to have the Nahnum now, just before we leave.”
“Leave?” I say. “You’re going somewhere?”
“Oh,” Yisella laughs. “We’ll leave again very soon. Summer is the busiest time, when we make trips across the water to trade with the river people. We only come back to Tl’ulpalus long enough to get ready for the next trip across — in summer that is. And this will be our last trip this summer. During winter we stay here all the time.”
“What do you trade for?” I ask. It seems like things are backwards here. I always thought summer was for sleeping late, for lying around watching DVDs, or hanging out with friends and swimming at the beach.
“We give them salmon and they give us other things, but the best thing is the goat’s wool we use to weave blankets. The river people can only collect wool in the springtime, when the mountain goats leave their fleece on the trees and bushes. So we go in the summertime to get as much as we can. It’s the most important trip for Mother.”
Blankets made of goat hair? I think of my cashmere sweater, the one that Aunt Maddie bought for me last Christmas. It’s softer than anything. I can’t imagine what kind of a sweater you could possibly make from a goat! And what about those dogs that Mr. Sullivan said were used for their woolly coats? I ask Yisella about them.
“Oh, I’ve never seen them,” she tells me. “That was before I was born, but Grandmother remembers. There were lots of them then, in the villages up the river, but they aren’t around anymore.”
“We have wool too,” I tell Yisella. “But it comes from sheep and it comes in all different colours. My mother was a really amazing knitter!” I do my best to ignore the lump forming in my throat, the lump that comes out of nowhere every single time I talk or even think about my mother.
“Knitting?” Yisella is confused for a moment, but then she seems to understand. “With the two sticks, right? You work them together on your lap. There was a white woman who came with the man that wanted otter pelts, and she showed Mother how to weave with the sticks. It’s very fast and the weaving is even.”
“Yeah, they’re called knitting needles. Different sizes make different sized stitches. I was just learning how to knit, when my—” I stop.
“You said your mother was a knitter. Doesn’t she knit anymore?” Yisella asks, somewhat puzzled.
It’s so hard to answer questions like this one. Questions that mean I will have to explain. I say the words, “My mother is dead,” and it sounds like someone else talking, so matter-of-factly, like “it’s raining,” or “the earth is round.” But I say the words to Yisella anyway.
“She died in—” and then I realize that Yisella won’t know what I mean when I tell her my mother died in a car accident. There are no cars here, so I just say, “She died in an accident. It was almost two years ago.”
Yisella’s eyes lock with mine for a moment while I struggle with my emotions. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell that she understands about “the lump.” I’m grateful when she doesn’
t ask me any more questions, because I’m pretty sure that if she did, I wouldn’t be able to say anything. Not now, not here, where everything seems like a dream and I’m not sure when, or even if, I’m going to wake up. While everyone is very accepting of me, I am still an outsider, and it’s times like this when I feel unsure of myself and get confused, that I really miss my mom. She could always calm me down. Dad can make me laugh most of the time when I get bummed out or mad, but it was always Mom who could put things into proper perspective for me. She made everything make sense.
I feel like I’m drowning in the memories, and I’m going to be swallowed up by them. Instead, I am surrounded with a strong smell of lemons that seems to come out of nowhere. Just like that, a fresh citrus scent fills my senses, but only for a moment before it dissipates as quickly as it came. I smile because I know what — or should I say who — it was. There are no lemons here; no fruit like that anywhere in Tl’ulpalus. I’d almost forgotten about Mom’s lemon fragrance. How she would always dab it on my wrists if I was nervous about something I had to do and she couldn’t be with me. “There you go,” she’d say. “Because I can’t be with you today, this is second best.” And I remember how the lemony scent alone would make me feel stronger. How could I have forgotten something so special about Mom?
I don’t say anything to Yisella, but deep in my heart I know it was Mom, here, wearing her lemon fragrance just as she always did. I know it was her way of letting me know that she’s with me, on this crazy adventure, or in this dream, or whatever this experience is. And although the smell is gone, the memory of it stays with me for a long time.
It’s enough to make me feel safe and so much calmer now, as I sit here on the mat waiting with Yisella and the others. Yisella looks at me kindly, knowing that my uncomfortable moment has passed and I’m pretty much okay again.
Then I catch Nutsa staring at me, and when our eyes meet, I notice that hers are icy cold and unblinking. I look away first, and notice Yisella watching her mother’s movements, the way she sighs and rubs her back with the palm of her hands. I recall what Yisella said earlier about how hard and how long her mother works.
Slivers of early evening’s sunlight stream through the spaces between several planks in the longhouse walls. It is warm and golden and it makes me think of summer evenings back home. By now, I’d probably have finished dinner and be outside with Chuck on the deck, watching for the one-eyed seal that’s been coming around our houseboat for almost a year now. My dad still calls him “One-Eye,” even though I told him it was a pretty lame and unimaginative name for a writer to come up with.
There would be sounds of laughter and clinking dishes coming from the patio of the Salty Dog Café up near the road, and Nell’s dog, Quincy, would be hanging around outside the back door waiting for the leftover fish and chip scraps. But I’m not there, I’m here. At the Nahnum, my first fire circle. And the air is electric.
16
Nahnum
ALL IS QUIET, EVEN the little ones, as a very old woman, Yisella’s great-grandmother, stands and walks slowly over to sit near the fire. She is small and bent, and her pure white hair is pulled into a single tight braid that follows the length of her spine. Although her face is weathered and lined with age, her eyes are alert as they shine brightly in the firelight. She nods and gives one of the little children sitting closest to her a wide toothless smile.
She wears a skirt made of the same stringy material as the mats we sit on, only it is finer and softer in the way it hangs around her legs. She pats her lap and Poos, the cat, nestles in for a nap. He covers his face with his paws.
Abruptly, great-grandmother begins to speak. Quietly at first, almost in a whisper, but then her voice grows louder and her words more clipped, coming quickly now. Her eyes grow wider and wider, and so do the eyes of the listeners who are seated all around. The little children stare, their eyes widest of all, their mouths forming tiny “Oh’s.”
I have no idea what the old woman is saying. The language is completely different, the words nothing like our English language. Some words seem to come from the very back of her throat and she makes these smacking and popping sounds. I do know that whatever she’s saying must be pretty intense. Her voice becomes quiet and slows once more. She is making stealthy crawling gestures with her arms, like someone creeping along the floor. Then she stands, spilling poor Poos onto the floor. She raises her arms above her head and stares intently at one of the children — the same little boy who I saw playing the chasing game when we first arrived at the village. He looks really freaked out, especially when she heads toward him with her hands waving violently over her head, her footsteps big, heavy and exaggerated.
A little girl starts to cry, but is cuddled into silence by a girl who could be her older sister. Great-grandmother stops in front of the little boy and stares down at him from above. Although she isn’t physically tall, her presence seems huge and powerful. The little boy cowers behind his mother and covers his eyes with his hands. It really bugs me that his mother just sits there, not comforting him much at all. What’s with that? I have a sudden urge to tell the old woman to stop being such a bully. Then I notice the small opening between two of his fingers so that he can still watch what’s going on. Kind of the way I watch scary movies; I don’t want to see but at the same time I have to look.
Suddenly great-grandmother shudders and utters a loud piercing cry that rattles the entire longhouse and sends Poos running for cover. A few people gasp in surprise. Not knowing what she is saying makes me a bit nervous, but at the same time I’m fascinated. I really want to know why she cried out like some kind of monster, but there’s no way I’m going to interrupt now to ask anyone. Especially not Yisella, who is watching as if she doesn’t dare breathe.
A moment later, everyone is silent and great-grandmother is quiet and still. I’m pretty sure that her story has ended but, just as I allow my muscles to relax a bit, she cackles, scoops up the little boy like he’s kindling, and runs out through the door. I can hear him screaming outside, while another child inside the longhouse starts to cry. I get this rush of adrenaline and look to Yisella who still hasn’t moved from her spot. I don’t know what to do. I want to rush out the door and save the little boy. What sort of a story is this? That old lady is obviously crazy and everyone else must be scared of her because no one’s moving. No one is doing anything. They just sit there like statues, as though waiting for something else to happen. Well I may not know what’s going on, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t just sit here and let something awful happen to that little kid!
The once calm and golden atmosphere inside the long-house now seems smoky and dark, claustrophobic. I’m about to jump up and run after them, but then they come back through the door. The old woman is laughing and holding the little boy’s hand. He is also laughing now, although his eyes are still sort of wide and staring.
Everybody seated in the circle breathes a sigh of relief and laughs loudly along with the old woman. They yell and slap their hands on their laps. Two of the smallest children, no longer crying, are curiously watching all the laughing faces, not quite sure what to make of it all. They aren’t the only ones. I can’t figure it out either.
No longer transfixed by the storytelling, Yisella touches my arm, kind of like she’s trying to apologize, but I know she’s fighting to keep from laughing at me.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” she says, smiling at my serious expression. “My great-grandmother tells this story over and over again so most of us know it well. For some of the little children, it is the first telling.”
“But they’re so young!” I stammer. “They were really scared!”
“Yes,” she agrees. “They were very scared. It was good to see,” she tells me calmly.
“What? Since when is it cool to scare little kids?” I say indignantly, aware that my outburst is turning some heads. When Yisella only laughs at me again, my face grows hot, and it’s not from being so close to the fire! If there’s
one thing I hate, it’s when people are cruel to kids and animals.
“Hannah, you shouldn’t be so upset. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Little kids have to learn the stories. Especially this story,” Yisella says in a more serious tone. “It’s for their own good.”
For their own good. I hate that expression. I hear parents using it all the time, and nine times out of ten, their reason turns out to be something lame. “But why? Why do they need to be so scared?” I ask, in a voice much louder than I intended it to be.
“Because it is the story of Thumquas! Children need to learn about Thumquas as soon as they’re old enough to understand.”
“Thumquas?” I ask.
“Yes, half-man, half-beast,” Yisella explains. “He lives here in the woods and he’s big and hairy. He also has a very strong smell. It’s best that little kids know about him as soon as they’re able to understand. That way they won’t go into the woods alone where he may be able to hurt them. They must learn to stay near the villages.”
“Thumquas? He sounds like the Sasquatch!”
Yisella nods. “Yes, Sesquac is another name. Maybe it is the same. There are lots of different names for him, but to us he is Thumquas and he’s to be feared.”
I don’t believe this! Not the Sasquatch stuff again. I have to fight not to roll my eyes. Yisella gives me a serious look, as if to let me know that she doesn’t appreciate my cynical attitude, so I turn my attention back to the group.
They sit quietly once again. Yisella’s great-grandmother is among them, now seated on the floor with her eyes half-closed. Yisella whispers that the old woman becomes very tired after she tells the story of Thumquas. It takes a lot out of her.
Several more elders speak at the fire circle. They talk slowly and for a long time, often speaking so quietly that it’s really hard for me to hear them, not that I know what they’re saying. Yisella sits beside me and translates the important parts. They tell stories about the thunderbird and others about the salmon, like the ones carved onto the spindle whorl. One elder tells a long story about the first human, Syalutsa, who fell from the sky after the Great Flood. He was very smart and taught the ancestors how to make the river weirs to catch fish as well as how to track and hunt for deer. The children all listen, quiet as mice, and when the story is finished, they all shoot pretend arrows at each other and want to go up the river and catch a hundred fish each. I have to admit it’s pretty cute.
Hannah & the Spindle Whorl Page 9