Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  Thirty-Eight

  “I can’t accept these gifts, Eric. They make me feel very uncomfortable.” I fingered the pair of intricately beaded earrings the new chief’s mother had placed moments ago in my hands. She was handing a similar pair to a woman farther along our table.

  “Just your protestant inhibitions taking over.” He grinned. “Relax and enjoy them. It’s the Haida way.” He held up a woodcut print of an eagle, hummingbird, dogfish, and beaver intertwined and flowing one into the other. “Quite something, isn’t it?”

  I had one too. In fact, everyone at our table had been given the same print, as had the people sitting at the surrounding tables. “I think the figures are the crests of the Greenstone Eagles. They look similar to the ones carved into the totem pole.”

  “You’re right.” Becky held up hers. “And everyone gets one.”

  Caught up in official duties, Louise sat at a table several tables from ours, next to the head table where the new chief and Matriarch were seated.

  “But there have to be over five hundred people here. That’s a lot of prints.”

  “A lot of gifts, period.” Eric pointed to a blue iPod nano and a small woven cedar basket lying next to his print. “And a lot of money invested in them. I can see why Harry didn’t want to cancel the potlatch.”

  Becky was struggling to insert a dangly earring similar to mine, but without success.

  “Here, let me help you.” The silver wires slipped in easily. The red and silver beads shimmered as she shook her head, laughing. “They look very chic. They match your sweater perfectly.”

  Thinking my copper and black pair would compliment my new black dress nicely, I laid them on top of some fluffy teal blue towels, another potlatch gift.

  “Eric, I can see you being given all these gifts because they probably consider you a V.I.P. And Becky, because she’s a member of the community. But me? I’m just a mere wife. I don’t deserve any of this. Besides, I ended up not witnessing the pole raising. I thought that was the purpose of these gifts.”

  Eric leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re not a mere wife to me, nor are you a mere wife to the Haida. Remember, women rule here.”

  Becky raised a clenched fist into the air. “Yes!”

  It was nice to see her enjoying the evening with little hint of the sadness that seemed to lurk in her eyes whenever I saw her.

  “I suppose. But I still can’t help feeling embarrassed by all this generosity. And I’m terrified we’ll have to hold a potlatch to repay them.”

  “Not unless I decide to become a Haida chief,” he said, chuckling. “Do you fancy wearing one of those button blankets? I think you would look rather fetching. And you certainly have the shy retiring personality of a matriarch.”

  I punched him in the arm. “A totem pole is just the accent we need at Three Deer Point. It’ll fit right in with the pine trees.”

  “Please, enjoy these gifts without feeling guilty,” Becky said. “It’s our tradition.”

  From the moment we arrived in the overcrowded community hall it had been a whirlwind of sights, sounds, and smells, starting with the ceremonial drum entrance of the Haida chiefs wearing elaborate headdresses and ornate blankets. The room burst into thunderous applause when the new Chief Greenstone entered accompanied by his mother, the new Matriarch.

  This was followed by a brief ceremony, which looked a bit like a coronation as the Matriarch placed a curious-looking headdress on her son’s head. Around the back and sides of this headdress dangled long white ermine tails topped by a ring of upright feathers, giving the headdress a crown-like appearance. The front piece appeared to be made of wood with a carving of an eagle sporting a menacing hooked beak. This eagle was edged on either side by a line of tiny objects that sparkled green under the brilliant lights of the hall.

  “Are those emeralds?” I jokingly asked Becky.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She laughed. “I imagine they are pieces of cut glass meant to represent the green stones of the clan.”

  “Is the clan really named after a green stone?”

  “So our storytellers have told us. No one knows where the stone came from or even if it existed. You see, these islands don’t have any rocks or minerals that are green, like jade or tourmaline.”

  “Or emeralds?”

  “I wish.” She laughed again. “According to our stories, a long-ago chief of the Greenstone Eagles brought some curious green stones home after a sea voyage to a distant land. He liked their pretty sparkle and placed them in his headdress and other items of his regalia. Traditionally we use abalone shell.”

  “So they could’ve been emeralds?”

  “I suppose, but more likely they were just pieces of green glass like those in Harry’s headdress. Harry commissioned an artist from Old Masset to make it for him.”

  “What happened to the regalia of that long-ago chief?”

  “The story goes that the Matriarch at that time hid it in a secret location known only to her. The knowledge of this location was supposedly lost when the Matriarch died from smallpox. It happened long ago when the clan still lived at its hereditary village of Llnagaay.”

  “Would Louise know if it ever existed?”

  “She might. But if it’s still around, Harry would be wearing it. He is Chief Greenstone, whether she likes it or not. Besides, regalia that old wouldn’t survive this long. Feathers, fur, and wood don’t age well unless they’re kept in optimum conditions, and my people never worried about that. With such a plentiful supply of materials, things could easily be replaced.”

  “Except for green stones.”

  Her brown eyes twinkled. “If they were made of glass, replacement is easy, as you can see with Harry’s headdress.”

  I rather liked the idea of emeralds. It appealed to my sense of romance. I would continue to think of the ancient green stones as emeralds lost in a secret location where the Greenstones used to live.

  “There’ve been stories of men nosing around Llnagaay searching for treasure, so some people thought they were more than just glass,” she continued.

  “Did anyone ever find them?”

  “Not that I know of. But if someone did, they wouldn’t exactly broadcast it.”

  I thought of the piece of green stone I’d seen only a few hours ago, and was about to ask Becky about Allistair’s pendant when someone tapped a microphone to say Chief Greenstone was about to speak, ending further conversation.

  Harry started off by welcoming everyone to the potlatch. Next he pledged his allegiance to his clan as their chief and to the Haida Nation. He finished with one minute of silence in the memory of François Champagne. At a nearby table, I saw Sherry wipe away tears with one hand while the other clung to Ernest, who was sitting beside her. It would appear that the carver wasn’t high on her suspect list.

  Although Eric had already shown Allistair’s bracelet to a number of people, no one had yet identified it. While most commented on its age and the high quality of workmanship, a couple of the older women and an old man reacted much like Flo had. Their expressions went blank and they insisted that we keep it out of sight. One of the women went so far as to say the bracelet was cursed. But they refused to tell us who it had once belonged to. Cursed or not, we needed to know. I was holding out for Louise, but we couldn’t show her the bracelet until the end of the potlatch.

  Thunderous drumming accompanied by boisterous clapping and shouting announced the arrival of the dancers. A swirl of sea, avian, and forest creatures sporting flying capes and brilliantly coloured masks with jutting beaks and snouts and threatening eyes cavorted into the hall. After several raucous dance sets, the dancers were joined by others, including Eric dragging a reluctant me. Within minutes the two of us were hopping and gyrating with the best of them and I found myself enjoying the hoopla. Someone even plunked a cedar hat onto my head.

  The delicious aromas wafting from the mounds of food arriving into the hall sent us back to our table. There we remain
ed for the rest of the evening, feasting on the bounty of the Haida Gwaii seas. I particularly liked the Haida delicacy of strips of dried salmon and kelp covered in herring roe and dipped in warm oolichan oil.

  Feeling very replete, I sank back into my chair to savour the last of evening. But the sound of scraping chairs soon filled the hall, as people headed to the exits laden with gifts.

  “It looks like the potlatch is over,” I said to Eric. “Maybe we’d better grab Louise before she leaves, to see if she can identify the bracelet.”

  After piling our gifts into a bag Becky had given us, we started over to Louise’s table.

  But before we reached her, loud shouting broke out behind us.

  I turned around and saw Sherry. She was yelling, “Arrest that guy!”

  She was pointing directly at the skinny man with the braided beard who had spat on François, the man whose name I now knew was Siggy.

  Thirty-Nine

  “Eric, we should do something.”

  More and more heads were turning to look at the shrieking Sherry, who was half-hidden by the craning necks in front of us.

  “He killed my Bo-Bo!”

  Siggy, the man she was screaming at, tugged thoughtfully at the tail of his braided beard. He didn’t appear the least bit upset by her accusation. He said something to the hysterical woman before turning on his heels and striding away. Her yelling went up several decibels. I figured it was nothing complimentary.

  “Do you think he did it?” Eric asked, pushing his way through the crowd. I clung to his arm to avoid being swallowed up.

  “I’ve no idea. But if he were guilty, you’d think he wouldn’t show his face where he’s probably known by most of the people in this room. Excuse me.” I jostled with a man who’d just stepped in my way. “Besides, she accused him in front of the police. So if he really is a suspect, surely they’d have him behind bars.”

  “Someone grab him! Pleaaase!” Sherry hollered. Although I could no longer see her, I could hear her heels clattering along the floor.

  “Christ,” Eric muttered at the same time as I heard something land on the floor with a thud.

  “I’ve got him,” a gruff male voice shouted.

  Eric bent down. The people in front of me parted to reveal a disheveled Sherry sprawled out on the floor, her short leather skirt pushed up to reveal her nether regions, barely covered by a thong.

  “Are you okay?” Eric asked reaching down to help her up.

  “I’m fine. Just get that man,” she shot back, not bothering to pull her skirt down. I watched her give Eric one of those challenging looks that dared him to ogle her.

  I hastily intervened. “I’ll help her, you go after Siggy.” The first thing I did was tug her skirt down. Then with the aid of another woman, we helped her to her feet.

  “Ouch!” she shrieked as she hopped on one foot. “Goddamn it, I’ve twisted my ankle.”

  Someone passed her a chair. She collapsed into it with a groan and started rubbing her sore ankle. “Did they get the bastard? He killed my Bo-Bo.”

  The crowd moved back to reveal Eric walking back to us. Although he strode with determination, I noticed a faint twinkle in his grey eyes, almost as if he were trying to keep himself from laughing. Next to him ambled Siggy. The two men were about the same height, but Siggy was much slimmer, almost too thin. His jeans and flannel shirt hung loosely from his slightly stooped frame, while his belt was cinched in as far as it could go. His weathered face was creased in a broad, gap-filled grin. With his straggly long hair and curious beard, he looked more like an aging hippy than a former logger.

  On the other side of Siggy strode the RCMP officer from the detachment, a tad shorter than the other two, but his girth considerably wider. I barely recognized Staff Sergeant Galarneau in his potlatch attire: pressed jeans, crisp button-down shirt partially hidden by a vest resplendent with Haida creatures. A traditional headband edged in fur ringed his short-cropped hair. He, too, looked as if he was sharing in the joke.

  I started to ask them what was so funny, but was stopped by Sherry. “Where’re the handcuffs? Isn’t that what you do with prisoners?” she rasped.

  Before Galarneau could answer, another voice interjected. “Is this the man that ruined my pole raising?”

  Harry strode over with the confidence of a new chief. Although he no longer wore his headdress, he still appeared very regal in his button blanket. His mother had remained standing in front of the head table, arms crossed over the shelf of her bosom, her lips firmed in a smug grin. Behind me I heard restless stirrings and whispered exchanges.

  “Please, everyone, calm down.” Sergeant Galarneau held up his hands.

  Harry walked up to the suspect. “You’re Siegfried de Jong, aren’t you?” He stood back and surveyed the glibly smiling hippy. “I don’t get it. What do you have against me that you would want to ruin my pole raising?”

  Siggy ran his eyes up and down his accuser. He curled his lip in derision and answered with a grunt, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

  “Please,” Sergeant Galarneau said, “I’m sure you both have good cause to accuse Siggy of cutting the ropes, but he didn’t do it. He has an alibi, which I have verified. There’s no way he could’ve cut the ropes that killed Monsieur Champagne.”

  “That is correct, mijn vrouw.” He bowed at Sherry while completely ignoring Harry. “I had drunk too much beer and spent the night passed out at the house of my friend. I could not have cut this rope.” He tugged at the thin braid of his beard, which was strung with three wooden beads — a red one, a yellow, and a blue. “I may have hated your husband, but I did not want him dead. Please accept my condolences.” He gave her another bow. If he’d had a hat on his head, I swear he would’ve doffed it in troubadour fashion.

  “You’re lying. I bet your friend is covering for you.”

  “Think about it, mijn vrouw. If I had wanted to kill your husband, I would have chosen a method more direct like a gun. Hoping for a totem pole to fall on an intended victim does seem a little too much like Russian roulette. I prefer more certain methods.”

  “He is right, madame,” the policeman offered. “It is more likely that Monsieur Champagne’s death is a result of a tragic accident.”

  “But you said someone cut those ropes.”

  “Yes, our evidence suggests this is the case.”

  “So if this guy didn’t do it, who did?”

  “Someone who wanted to embarrass me,” Harry interjected. “And we all know who that is.”

  Sherry turned to the policeman “So if you know who it is, why haven’t you got the guy?”

  “Harry, are you referring to Johnnie Smith?” the policeman asked.

  “Yup, my useless cousin. You saw what he did this morning.”

  The cop nodded. “Do you have any evidence that he cut the ropes?”

  “Ask Denny. He saw him lurking around the carving shed yesterday, near where they were storing the ropes. He could’ve done it then.”

  “He didn’t do it,” said a new voice. I turned to see Louise approaching. “My nephew would never harm anyone.”

  Harry and Sergeant Galarneau exchanged glances before the policeman said, “Bonsoir, madame. You are looking very nice in your regalia. This must be a very proud moment for you. Finally you have a Chief Greenstone.”

  “Thank you, Jean-Louis. It is a wonderful moment for my clan. But I tell you, Johnnie didn’t do this. He would never do anything that could hurt someone.”

  “That may be so, madame. But you can’t deny that he was pretty hostile to Harry this morning.”

  “Yes, I know. He should never have done that. And I apologize for him.” She paused. “You’re the policeman. Do what you think is right.”

  He nodded grimly. “Harry, a word with you.”

  The two men disappeared through the crowd, their heads slanted toward each other in conversation. Siggy, on the other hand, after bowing once again at Sherry, strode away whistling in the opposite
direction.

  Forty

  “I like Siggy’s beard decorations,” I said to Louise.

  “Except the colours clash with his orange shirt.” The ring of her laughter belied the exhaustion in her face. But she brushed aside the chair I offered with a dismissive wave.

  “A lot of curious people wash up on our shores. We have our share of hippies, draft dodgers, escape-to-nature types, all wanting to get as far from their own world as possible. Most came in the late 1960s and ’70s and set themselves up as homesteaders, though not many of them live out in the bush today. It’s pretty tough living off the land … unless you’re Haida. Mind you, not many of us doing that either. We love our modern conveniences too much.” Her laughter rang out again.

  “Where’s Siggy from?”

  “I think he’s Dutch. He’s been on these islands a long time. We don’t see him much in Skidegate. He pretty much sticks to himself on that property he’s got way down on the south end of Moresby Island. I’ve never been there myself, but my nephew says it’s a strange place, an old abandoned whaling station. It’s not far from Llnagaay.”

  Eric yawned. “Man, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll sit down. Why don’t you join me, Louise?”

  This time she didn’t hesitate to collapse into a chair. Trust Eric to come up with a way to overcome her pride. Exhausted myself, I slumped into the chair beside her.

  “Do you visit your ancestral village much?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been there in years. When the kids were young, I and my family and my sister’s used to visit it once a year to remind our kids of their roots. We tried to do what we could to keep the few remaining poles from falling over, but it was a losing battle. Eventually we let the moss, wind, and rain return them to Mother Earth. I imagine there isn’t much left of the village today.” She sighed.