“It’s the reason for my visit. This is a time for families.” He pulled her to her feet and hugged her.
She wept silently into his chest. Finally she pulled herself away. “Do you know how he died?”
Eric nodded. “Have the police found the person who did it yet?”
“I don’t know. They aren’t saying much. But who would want to kill my sweet innocent boy who never harmed anyone?”
“Tell me about him.” Eric resumed his seat beside me.
She hesitated. “You know he’s native?”
Eric nodded.
“I hope you don’t mind. I know it wasn’t easy for you, particularly when our parents pretended you weren’t native, so I wanted to make it up with Allistair. From the moment we got him as a tiny two-month-old, Dmitri and I did all we could to ensure he knew he was Haida.”
“Do you know what happened to his mother?”
“It’s a sad story. I was doing volunteer work in the ER at Vancouver General when the paramedics came in with a young native woman who’d been stabbed. She was eight months pregnant. The doctors were able to save the baby, but couldn’t save the mother. He was a fighter this little guy. I fell in love with his fighting spirit. So when social services decided to put him up for adoption, I persuaded Dmitri that we could provide a good home for him.”
“Why didn’t the authorities give the baby to the grandparents?” Eric asked.
“The woman had no ID and the police weren’t able to establish her identity. They only knew she was Haida.”
“But surely they could’ve made the effort to find the girl’s relatives on Haida Gwaii. There can’t be more than a couple of thousand living there,” Eric said a little too strongly.
Cloë’s paleness became a bright pink as she searched for a response.
I patted Eric on the knee, muttering, “Now’s not the time.”
“The authorities tried … I think,” Cloë said, biting her lip. “But you know how it was and still is at these agencies, not enough resources for the workload. I don’t think anyone had the time to go to Haida Gwaii. Besides, the baby needed a lifesaving operation. We were the best equipped to help him. You see, he was born with a defective heart.”
“I’m sure it was the right decision,” I interjected. “Besides, I gather you did what you could to ensure he learned about his Haida heritage.”
She raised an eyebrow at me, as if questioning how I would know.
“Sorry, I was told he was a wood carver. Are those some of his carvings in the cabinet with his picture?”
“Yes.” She walked over to retrieve the two miniature totem poles and the carved fish. “Look at the fine detail in these poles. He carved them when he was only twelve. The orca he carved a couple of years ago. He based it on a sculpture by the famous Haida artist Bill Reid.”
Keeping the killer whale for herself, she passed each of us a tiny pole, both about ten centimetres in height. I breathed in the faint cedar smell. The exaggerated features of the miniscule birds and animals seemed to leap out from the wood. I felt as if the cedar had become their prison and once freed from its entrapment, they would spring forth into life.
Eric ran his fingertips lightly over the undulating contours of the carving. “He was very talented.” He didn’t voice what was doubtless uppermost in all our minds, a talent that would never be realized.
“Meg said he was carving a totem pole at the time of his death.”
She glanced at him helplessly. “He wasn’t supposed to be in the carving shed. He was supposed to be at the university library studying for a major exam he had the next day. He was in second year political science. I so wanted him to do well. I was hoping he would eventually help his people by becoming a lawyer. But that man — that so-called master carver — was trying to twist his mind into thinking carving was his heritage. As if Allistair could help his people by gouging out bits of wood.”
“Totem poles play a significant role in Haida culture,” Eric answered.
“I know they do,” she said between clenched teeth. “But as a lawyer he could’ve done so much more for the Haida.”
“Perhaps he could’ve become both,” I interjected, wanting to ease the tension. “You must have many happy memories of Allistair.”
“I do.” She caressed the orca carving, running her fingers idly over its arched back. “Many…. He was a very sweet boy.”
“And you loved him dearly.”
“And now I have to bury him.” She lapsed into silence, while Eric and I fidgeted, trying to come up with a fitting response.
Eric took a final sip of his scotch and broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Sis. I overreacted. I know you did the best you could for the boy.”
Raising a tear-stained face to her brother, she said, “No, you’re right. He was very proud of being Haida and I didn’t pay enough attention to it. He always wanted to go to his people’s homeland and I never took him.” She paused. “I was afraid. It’s a simple as that. I feared someone would recognize him as their grandchild or nephew and would take him away from me. But now I want to set it right.”
She banged the orca down onto the coffee table and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “Although I plan to bury his ashes here in Vancouver, I want to sprinkle some of them on Haida Gwaii. I also want to see if I can find out if he has any living relatives. They’ve probably been wondering what happened to his mother all these years.” She paused before turning her porcelain features toward her brother’s distinctly bronzed face. “Eric, can you help me?”
“I’m not sure what I can do.”
“I guess … I was thinking that because … you’re … ah …”
“I know, you think because I’m native that I have an in, that I know every native in Canada—”
“Eric,” I hastily interjected, “I’m sure that’s not what your sister means. She’s probably thinking that the Haida community might more readily answer your questions than hers. You yourself know how native communities will close their doors to whites.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll make some inquiries. Tell me what you know about the mother.”
She glanced at me and muttered thanks before continuing, “Mary is the only name I have for her. The police were never able to come up with a last name. We buried her. I didn’t want her ending up in a Jane Doe grave. I want to bury Allistair beside her.”
“Are you sure she was Haida?”
“A woman she hung around with said she was. It was terrible the kind of life she led. She was living in an abandoned house with little more than thin blankets and newspapers to keep her warm.”
“I don’t suppose they found her killer?” Eric asked.
She shook her head. “The police thought it was either her pimp or a john, but were never able to come up with any suspects.”
“A pimp or a john?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “She was eight months pregnant. Surely she wasn’t turning tricks.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Cloë replied.
“It happens, especially if she was feeding a habit.” Eric sighed. “I doubt the cops put much effort into finding her killer. Was there any mention of her clan? As you know, the Haida have—”
“I’m perfectly aware of the two clans,” she cut in. “I doubt the police knew or cared, but I suspect she was of the eagle clan.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ll show you.” She rose from her chair and headed into the hallway.
Hearing her climb the stairs to the next floor, I said, “Eric, I know this is difficult for you and I can see she does have her faults. But she’s going through a really rough time too. Can’t you try to be a little more understanding, please?”
He squeezed my hand. “Yes, my Miskowàbigonens, you’re right. It just is—”
Eric stopped talking at the sound of his sister’s footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor outside the living room. She came in holding a circular band of gleaming silver in the palm of her hand.
> “This bracelet was found in the woman’s belongings. You’ll see that the predominant figure is an eagle.”
She passed it to me. An intricate design of Northwest Coast native art was etched into the finely polished silver. I recognized the eagle in the centre of the design by its oversized beak and bold eyes. There were a couple of smaller eagles intertwined with what looked to be a fish and another fanciful creature with bulging eyes. In several places the design was almost worn smooth.
“This looks quite old and very valuable,” I said. “If she was as poor as you say, I’m surprised she didn’t sell it.”
“I found it hidden inside a pouch that was with her other belongings. The police found it in a garbage bag near where she was stabbed.”
“Could she have been killed for this bracelet?”
“I doubt it. He would’ve taken it.”
“You’re right.” I wondered if this was the bracelet Allistair had wanted to give to his girlfriend.
“My son treasured it,” she said.
Holding the bracelet under the brighter light of a table lamp, Eric peered intently at the inside of the band. “There looks to be some marks here, but I can’t make them out. Maybe they identify the artist, and if so that might help to identify her.”
She walked over.
“I see what you mean. She did have one other item on her at the time — a flat piece of a green translucent stone that she was wearing around her neck. I think it’s jade, but I’ve never had it verified. It’s a rather curious piece with a strange design carved on one side. I could never make out exactly what the design was.”
“Do you have it handy?” Eric asked. “It could also be useful.”
“It should be upstairs. No, wait a minute. Allistair would’ve been wearing it. I’ll have to follow up with the police to ensure I get it back.” She paused. “I’d better call now, otherwise I’ll forget.”
She slipped out of the room and within minutes was returning, her face twisted with annoyance.
“Damn those police. You can’t trust them. They say they don’t have it. But I know Allistair was wearing it when he left the house that morning. He was never without it. It’s probably mixed up with their other evidence.”
“Or maybe it was taken by the man who killed your son,” I hazarded.
Sixteen
Where It Began
Despite the build-up of surf, Scav’s salvaging equipment easily towed the kid’s log the five kilometres to Llnagaay. And with the beach on a dead calm lagoon, the landing was a cinch. The tide also behaved itself by reducing the beach to a narrow strip. Hell, maybe Salaana was on his side.
But hauling that sucker up the steep incline of loose stone to solid ground gave him and Scav one hell of a workout, even if they had help. They used the time-honoured Haida method of pulling the massive dead weight over smaller logs using Scav’s power winch. But the ancestors would’ve used woven cedar bark instead of nylon rope. And instead of electric power, they would’ve used slaves to do the pulling.
After he and Scav got the log onto the flat land beyond the beach, they hauled it farther into the trees to hide it from prying eyes. Not that there’d be any prying eyes. Nobody ever came this far south. Too far and too isolated.
He liked the idea of using Llnagaay. It seemed fitting to carve the log where the clan used to live. After all, the story was about the clan and its shame.
They winched the log onto several trestles Scav made from driftwood. It lay next to the moss-lined pit of a once mighty longhouse. He could see the outline of one of the cross beams covered in the same thick, spongy moss that had moved in when his people moved out. Unlike the rest of the house, this beam hadn’t been completely reclaimed by Mother Earth. Because of the size of the pit, he figured this had probably been a chief’s house, which seemed like what the Iron Men called poetic justice, for it had been a member of a chief’s family who pretty near ruined the clan.
So you traitor, if your spirit’s caught up somewhere in the trees, pay attention. Most likely though, your spirit’s hanging out in some museum, where your burial box is stacked away in storage along with all the other stolen burial boxes. I’m gonna tell the story of what you did to bring shame to our clan.
Seventeen
I snuggled deeper into Eric’s sleeping warmth, pulling the duvet tightly around us. To think I’d been stupid enough to believe I could live without him. Stupid and too pigheaded to admit I was wrong.
A faint murmur whistled through his lips. Although he didn’t snore, he did snuffle intermittently throughout the night, sounds I’d come to love. It told me that he was very much alive, something that had been in doubt last fall. Physically, he’d fully recovered from the ordeal, although the scars around his ankles would always be a reminder. But mentally, he still bore the wounds.
Occasionally, I sensed a tenseness underlying his usually calm demeanor, particularly when entering a dark room. And he hated to be alone. After returning home with me to Three Deer Point, he would follow me from room to room, unable to bear being by himself. Eventually he was able to abide being alone as long as Sergei was with him and the door left open. After Sergei died, I would leave him absorbed in his reading, only to have him join me several minutes later. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be with him. But there were times when I needed my own space. Perhaps a puppy wasn’t such a bad idea.
The sun filtered through the curtains billowing in the breeze of the open window. The air felt cool on my face and smelt of the city and the sea. I snuggled deeper into the warmth. It looked as if this morning was going to be a contest to see who could wait out the other before one of us gave up and leapt out into the cold to close the window. Mind you, after last night’s late hour, more like early morning hour, since it was close to three when we finally shut the door on our guests, I could stay here for the rest of the day. From the sound of Eric’s steady breathing he could too.
Last evening’s Closing Feast lived up to its billing. The servers brought in platter after platter piled high with grilled salmon and halibut, boiled spot prawns and fried oysters and roast bear, moose, and venison. Of course the wine flowed along with the beer and scotch.
I couldn’t deny that I was tempted, sorely tempted more than once to have a sip, just a tiny sip of wine. But when the urge hit, I followed Eric’s advice of turning my thoughts to something equally desirable, like making love on a carpet of moss with the summer sun filtering through the trees. In the early days, after I’d gone completely cold turkey, the urge was difficult to ignore, but after many months of no alcohol, I’d learned to shove it aside whenever it raised its ugly head, which it rarely did these days.
My first Closing Feast, I wasn’t sure what to expect. After hearing the patronizing comments made by some of Eric’s friends, I worried that I’d be given a few pats on the head and left to twiddle my thumbs like a good wife should. But Eric made sure I was included, and although I knew little of GCFN affairs, I was able to fling my fair share of quips into the boisterous conversation.
The ceremonial opening by the elders of the Musqueam Nation, whose traditional territory encompassed Vancouver, was gripping. Wearing hand-woven blankets and a variety of headgear from cone-shaped cedar bark hats to headbands with dangling strips of fur, the elders entered the banquet hall to the solemn beat of a drum and behind a gyrating procession of dancers wearing costumes that tinkled and chimed. After welcoming us to their territory and offering thanks to their gods for the bounty of the land, we diners pounced on this bounty.
The evening closed with the return of the dancers. Several, sporting grotesquely painted carved masks, twisted and turned with the movements of the animal whose mask they wore. I recognized the gull by the dancer’s outstretched arms and white mask with a gold beak and a train of white feathers. But I had to be told that the stomping dancer wearing the black animal mask with a toothy grin and menacing eyes was a bear.
Many diners joined the dancers, stomping and twisting with the best of
them. Despite Eric’s entreaties, I chickened out, in part because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself with my flaming red hair. Although no one suggested that I didn’t belong, I nonetheless felt like an interloper. Hopefully in time the feeling would disappear.
I felt more relaxed when several of Eric’s colleagues joined us along with their guitars back at the houseboat to finish the night with some country tunes, particularly after I learned that two of the men and one of the women were married to whites. It made me feel more acceptable.
I was sorry Louise had already left for Seattle to visit her son. I’d enjoyed her company. I couldn’t convince Eric to go to Haida Gwaii for the pole raising, despite finding a Sunday morning flight from Haida Gwaii that would get us to Vancouver in time to connect with an Ottawa flight that would arrive late Sunday with plenty of time for Eric’s early Monday morning interview. But Eric, having been the victim one too many times of the vagaries of weather and equipment screw-ups, wasn’t willing to chance it. Before she left, Louise invited us to visit her next time we were back in British Columbia. I’d do what I could to make this happen.
I chuckled remembering Eric’s boisterous singing last night. I hadn’t known he could carry a note, let alone sing like a warbler. Well, not quite, but he had a clear tenor voice and could do a good rendition of a country twang. I added my own slightly off-key alto and became completely caught up in the music, despite not knowing many of the words. I just hummed, stomped, and clapped with the rest of them. It had been a fitting end to the evening.
But way too late. Long gone were the days when I could do an all-nighter and go about my business next day with barely a yawn. Judging by the soundness of Eric’s sleep, I’d say he was feeling it too. And given the amount of scotch and wine he consumed last night, he was going to have one doozy of a headache.
I stretched out, then curled back up against him. His hand found my naked bottom and gave it a comforting pat, then he sighed and turned over. Thinking he was awake, I whispered quietly, but got no response other than a snuffling whistle as he sank deeper into sleep. I closed my eyes and felt the bed rock with the passing of a boat. I had no idea how late it was and didn’t want to know. We could stay in bed the whole day for all I cared.
Silver Totem of Shame Page 7