Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  It was Eric who noticed one particular photo that was partially hidden by a chair.

  He walked over and picked it up. He held it up to Louise. “Is this your daughter?”

  Louise nodded.

  “She’s beautiful, Auntie.” gushed Becky.

  And she was. She looked to be in her mid teens. Her long black hair spread over the brilliant red of her button blanket. She had the same engaging smile as Allistair and her eyes were the same bright amber colour. She even had the same slight droop of her right eye. I tried to see in those eyes any hint of her life to come, but nothing was revealed. She appeared to be a happy young woman filled with the promising dreams of youth. I wondered what so shattered that dream that within a few short years she was giving birth to a son as she lay dying on a cold hospital bed.

  “Yes, that’s my little angel.”

  “Is this her graduation photo?” Becky asked. “You gave me a button blanket like that for my own high school graduation, except it had ravens on it instead of eagles.”

  “Sadly, she lost interest in school before she could graduate. I gave her the blanket when she was still interested in learning our Haida ways. Curiously, just before she disappeared, she gave it to a girlfriend whose parents couldn’t afford to give her one.”

  “She sounds as if she had a kind heart,” Becky said. “I’m glad you’ve put her photo back where it belongs, with the rest of your family.”

  “Yes, it was time.” She paused before turning to Cloë. “Please tell me everything you know about my daughter … and her death.”

  Forty-Five

  Uncertain how much to divulge, Cloë looked to her brother for direction, but Louise answered for him.

  “Please, you don’t need to protect me. My daughter left these islands an alcoholic and likely a drug addict. I doubt she turned her life around in Vancouver. So please tell me the truth.”

  Cloë took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. I only know that she died shortly after giving birth to Allistair.”

  “From an overdose?”

  “No, she was stabbed.”

  “My poor Lizzie.” Louise’s shoulders slumped. “Did the police ever catch the person who did it?” She stopped. “Why do I bother to ask? Of course they didn’t. They probably didn’t lift a finger, figuring either a john or her pimp killed her.”

  “I think they did some investigating because I remember one officer mentioning that the circumstances surrounding her death were a bit unusual. But I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more. I’m afraid I didn’t pursue it. I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s no need to blame yourself. You didn’t know her.”

  “I didn’t even know her last name. Mary was the only name I was given.”

  “Elizabeth was the name she was baptized with. Her Haida name was Maada. Mary was my mother’s name.”

  “You can see why I had no way of finding you, although I did try. I felt that if there were any grandparents they should know about the child.”

  I was taken aback by Cloë’s bald-faced lies. But perhaps this was her way of admitting that she’d been wrong in not giving Louise a chance to enjoy her grandson while he was alive.

  “You’ve made the effort to find me now. That’s all that counts,” Louise said, as if sensing the truth. She reached for Cloë’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “I had to … for Allistair’s sake.” She paused. “There is a bright side to your daughter’s sad story. I think she was trying to turn her life around. According to her friend, she was looking forward to the baby and didn’t want to bring it up it on the streets. With the help of her boyfriend, the father of the child, she’d stopped drinking and was in a program to help with her drug addiction. She’d started collecting welfare and was supposed to be in line for social housing.”

  “Does this mean she wasn’t turning tricks when she died?”

  “The friend never said. Maybe that’s what the policeman meant by unusual circumstances.”

  “So why in the hell didn’t they try to find her killer?”

  Unable to give a fitting answer, Cloë closed her eyes and placed her hand on her bandaged forehead as if in pain.

  “Are you okay, child?” Louise asked. “You should be in bed.”

  “I wanted to tell you about your grandson. I felt it couldn’t wait.” Her voice sounded weak and she appeared paler than when we arrived. This was as hard on her as it was on Louise.

  Eric stood up. “I think we should take you home, Sis.”

  “No, I’m fine. The headache isn’t as bad as it was.”

  “Nothing beats a cup of tea for making you feel better,” Louise said. “Becky will make another pot. Do you mind, dear?”

  “Happy to.” The young woman strode out of the living room with the empty teapot.

  “What about this boyfriend?” I asked. “Did the police ever identify him?”

  “They never mentioned him. But her friend told me he took off after the couple had a big fight, a month or so before your daughter died. She never saw the man again. She assumed he’d gotten cold feet about the baby.”

  “Did she know his name?”

  “Just a strange nickname that sounded like ‘Guyga.’ I’ve no idea what it means. This friend thought he was also Haida.”

  “It could be from the Haida word for carver Gya k’id ll Gaay Ga. We Haida do love to use nicknames.”

  “There can’t be that many carvers,” Eric said. “Any chance you might know who he is?”

  “I suppose I could ask around, but I don’t think I want to. If this man were from here he would’ve known she was my daughter. He would’ve contacted me if he had wanted to and he never has. It’s best to keep things as they are.”

  “I see your point. But speaking from a man’s perspective, he might have been reluctant to approach you given your exalted position. You know you can be a bit intimidating.” Eric chuckled. “I’ve even had to summon my own courage in some of our heated Grand Council discussions.”

  Louise laughed. “That’s never stopped you from disagreeing with me.”

  “Because underneath I know you’re as soft as eagle down.”

  “You charmer you. Meg, if you hadn’t nabbed this man first, I would’ve gone after him myself.”

  “Yeah, but I saw him first, so hands off. Still, I could do with some cash…. How much are you willing to pay for him?”

  “I have a few spare loonies.”

  We chortled together while Eric frowned.

  Becky returned and poured steaming tea into all our cups.

  “Joking aside,” Louise said to Cloë, “did this friend know which clan he belonged to?”

  “If she did she never mentioned it, and I didn’t know enough to ask. Does it matter which clan the man belonged to?”

  “Not really, not now. Just wishful thinking on my part. If he was a Raven, he would have been the right partner for my daughter.”

  “That would mean that your daughter cared enough about her Haida heritage to choose the proper mate, wouldn’t it?” I said, trying to follow Louise’s train of thought.

  “It does, but it also would’ve meant that my grandson had the perfect parentage to become Chief Greenstone.”

  Becky clapped her hands. “Of course. He was a direct descendent of Old Chief’s Matriarch. Awesome. Imagine that, my Allie a chief.” Then her joy vanished as she remembered.

  “A double tragedy for you, Louise,” Eric said. “The naming of the new Chief Greenstone has not been an easy time for you, has it?”

  “That’s life, eh?” She sighed. “Besides, we Greenstone Eagles have survived much worse. Harry’ll be okay. He won’t be a great chief, but I don’t think he’ll be a terrible one either. Believe me, we’ve had some pretty bad ones throughout our history. Unfortunately he’ll probably be spending more time in Vancouver than here with his clan. He has to pay off that potlatch somehow.”

  “Does that mean that his mother, as the Greenstone Matriarch, will
be looking after clan affairs?” I asked.

  She gave me a long, hard stare before answering. “I don’t know what she will do. Traditionally the Matriarch advises the clan in the chief’s absence. She doesn’t take charge.”

  “Rose is going to be a disaster,” Becky cut in. “I bet she does more than advise. She’ll try to run it and make sure her family gets everything.”

  “Now child, Rose has her good side. She can be kind and generous.”

  “Yeah, to those who suck up to her.”

  Louise turned her attention to the coffee table and the green velvet bag. “Tell me, what is this very heavy object that you’ve brought me?”

  “That’s your grandson,” Cloë replied.

  Louise didn’t blink, but took it in stride. Becky, on the other hand, gasped and tentatively reached out as if she meant to touch it, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

  “I imagine you mean his ashes. They’re in an urn?” the grandmother said.

  “Actually, a bentwood box. I wanted to honour his heritage.”

  Louise smiled.

  “I had his ashes divided between a traditional urn and the bentwood box. I brought the box so that part of him could be buried with his ancestors.”

  “My dear, how thoughtful. I know just the place.”

  “I hope it’s beautiful and wild, the kind of place Allistair loved.”

  “It is a very beautiful place and very wild. It is where all Greenstone Chiefs have been buried. At Llnagaay or Hlgaa K’ inhalgahl Llnagaay, the full name of our ancestral village.”

  The sudden ringing of the phone stopped the conversation.

  Apart from a few clipped yes’s and one or two whens, it was impossible to know what the call was about; however, the deepening furrow in the elder’s brow suggested it wasn’t good news.

  After she replaced the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few moments before turning her attention back to us.

  “Tomorrow we go to Llnagaay.”

  Forty-Six

  The One in the Sea

  He swore he’d only been asleep a few minutes when Scav woke him up bursting with his news. But with the sun no longer lighting up the stones on the beach, he could tell it was well into the late afternoon. So he’d ended up sleeping longer than a couple of hours, but it hadn’t helped. His head still throbbed, though not as much as this morning. And his hands still shook. But he couldn’t wait until tomorrow to draw the next figure. If Scav’s news was anything to go by, he had to get it done today.

  According to Scav, the cops had finally identified the thief of the boy’s pole and their prime murder suspect. The name they had come up with was his. Scav heard it from a couple of off-duty cops at Jimmy’s last night. They even asked Scav if he’d seen his carving buddy lately, but of course Scav lied like the expert he was.

  They said they’d got his name from his tugboat buddy. Some friend, eh? But maybe Joe wasn’t a complete traitor, because the cops had drilled him after a witness reported seeing a log being loaded onto his tug in Richmond. Scav figured Joe hadn’t told them the whole truth. The cops told Scav that he and the log had been dropped off at the north end of Graham Island. They also told him that the Masset cops were searching the area around Rose Spit.

  He and his bro had laughed till their sides almost split when they heard this. Rose Spit was at the opposite end of Haida Gwaii, a good three hundred kilometres or more from where they were devouring Scav’s ham sandwiches in Llnagaay.

  Why the cops believed he’d be hiding out in the north, god only knows. He wasn’t a northern Haida. Showed you what little they knew about the community they were supposed to be policing. But he figured it was only a matter of time before someone let slip that his clan was southern and that he’d most likely be hiding out on one of the many islands in the south. Eventually they would clue in about his ancestral village and come looking. Now if it were just the cops he was worried about, he’d probably have enough time to finish the drawing and start carving the pole. But it wasn’t.

  He was more worried about the new chief. It looked like the geek would be coming sooner than expected. At the potlatch Scav had overheard him telling that bloody mother of his that the new boat had finally arrived. With a ready means of getting here, it was a matter of days if not hours before the Geek came to pay homage to his ancestors. Homage. Yeah, right.

  So he’d better get down to work. Thank Salaana he still had plenty of daylight left. He flexed the fingers of his drawing hand. They felt better. He took another big gulp of cold tea to help clear his mind. He was glad his brother had gone with Scav. He didn’t need the distraction, for this next part in the story was going to be difficult.

  He’d been giving a lot of thought to how best depict the crux of the story: the treasure. Since he had no idea what this treasure was, only hints of gold and glittery green stones from his nanaay, he had been at a loss about which crest to use until he had a sudden brainwave. It must’ve come to him while he was passed out, for when Scav shook him awake, there it was, fully formed in his mind: The One in the Sea.

  In the old days, his people had highly prized the sea turtle’s green, bumpy shell. When a chief potlatched, he used to dress up as The One in the Sea. Haida longhouses were said to resemble the curved and ridged outline of the shell and the chiefs’ coppers were said to resemble the shape of the plates of a sea turtle’s head.

  While he’d seen lots of bentwood boxes with The One in the Sea crest, he’d never seen one carved into a totem pole. Maybe there was some kind of taboo about putting them on poles, but he neither knew nor cared. After all, he was probably breaking a lot of Haida rules with this pole. So he’d just have to use his imagination and see what he could come up with, though drawing the formline to represent the shell was going to be tricky.

  He took another swig of the cold tea, wishing he had a bottle to add zip to it. But he’d made Scav take back the new bottle of rye he’d brought. He needed a clear head to talk to the log, to feel what it was trying to tell him.

  He brushed away the needles from the overhead branches and ran his hands lightly over the pole, starting with the top of Old Chief’s eagle head and on down to Blue Shell Chief’s raven feet. His fingers tingled with Old Chief’s pride, buzzed with the daring of the sea voyage and throbbed at Blue Shell chief’s treachery. When he reached the point where the lines would flow into The One in the Sea, they itched with greed.

  The marker flew over the wood as the treasure took shape. He drew ovoids within ovoids for the eyes. He gave the mouth a pointed beak, not as large as an eagle or raven beak, but a beak nonetheless. This he topped with two nostrils, which he would paint black. On either side of the large head, he drew smaller ovoids for the flippers. Resting on top of the head was the shell, a series of seven ovoids. He would paint The One in the Sea green. He thought it only fitting. But he would paint the flippers a bright yellow for the gold.

  In his childhood dreams, he’d imagined the treasure to be a bentwood box filled with Old Chief’s gold. He’d tried to guess where Old Chief’s Matriarch had hidden the treasure. Maybe it lay within the tangled roots of an ancient tree or buried under a mound of thick moss or deep within a crevice in the granite cliffs that hung over the village.

  For many years, whenever he visited, either with his family or alone, he searched for likely places, but always came up empty. Finally, he decided that if it had been in a place he could easily find then the treasure was likely long gone. And if it wasn’t, it was in a place so secret that a map would be needed to locate it. Since he didn’t have the map, he stopped looking.

  Forty-Seven

  The idea of Allistair’s ashes being sprinkled on the land of his ancestors rather appealed to my romantic sense of symmetry. The only problem was the journey to the southern end of Haida Gwaii would require three days — one day longer than we had. While Louise was saying we needed two full days of travel with a full day in between for the ceremony, Becky thought we could shor
ten it to two if we held the ceremony first thing in the morning and left immediately after. This would allow us to make our outbound flight the following morning. Louise, however, was adamant that she would need the entire day. She brushed Eric off with a mumbling answer about tradition when he queried her about a simple burial ceremony requiring an entire day. The phone call was beginning to make me wonder if there was another reason for this sudden trip.

  While I had no pressing need to get back to Three Deer Point, Eric felt he couldn’t afford any more time away from GCFN business. So we proposed that I go on the trip to keep his sister company.

  But no matter how much Eric cajoled, pleaded, and flat out refused, there was no dissuading Louise, and for that matter Cloë. Both were convinced that he, as Allistair’s closest male relative, even if only through adoption, needed to be there to help ease the boy’s passing into the Haida spiritual world. In the end he agreed and set about charming the airline into changing our flights yet again without charging a big penalty.

  Unfortunately, Murphy’s Law reigned. Various conferences and sporting events conspired to fill the different combinations of connecting flights so that in the end we would be travelling separately. Although we’d leave Haida Gwaii together four days from now, I had to layover an extra day in Vancouver, which I ended up pushing into three at Cloë’s request. She wasn’t quite ready to face her future without Allistair.

  None of this served to put Eric in a good mood, particularly when Cloë rushed up to him after he agreed to go to Llnagaay and clung to him, gushing, “Oh Eric, thank you, thank you. You are my rock. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  This prompted him to say, “I’m only doing this for the boy.” He removed her arms from around his neck, which surprised me as much as it did her.