Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  She walked over to where Eric was standing, arms crossed, pondering two cantilevered silvery-grey poles that seemed to be defying gravity in their desire to remain upright. One pole, with its surface smoothed by a hundred or more years of wind and rain, revealed little of its past glory, while the other still bore the faint lines of carving.

  “What do you think the carving is?” I tucked my hand into Eric’s.

  “He has quite the commanding eye, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does look like he’s trying to put the fear of god in us. From the size of the downward pointing beak, he could be a raven.”

  “You’re right,” Becky said. “The pole probably belonged to the village chief, who was a raven.”

  “Does that mean Ernest is a raven?” I asked.

  “He’s a Blue Shell Raven. He and Harry McMillan are cousins. His mother and Harry’s father are siblings.” She paused. “You know, Meg, I think I know where Ernest could be going to look for Johnnie.”

  “Is it far?”

  “It’s where we’re going — Llnagaay.”

  At that moment, a head of white hair emerged above the grass near the cottage. “Oh dear, there’s Auntie. We’d better get going.”

  Becky took off, with Eric and me in pursuit. Then I realized Cloë wasn’t with us.

  “Stop. Where’s Cloë?”

  “Damn that woman,” Eric muttered under his breath, then shouted, “Cloë, where are you?”

  He started walking back along the path. All that remained of her presence was the indentation where she’d knelt in the grass to examine a half-rotten pole lying on the ground.

  Eric called out again.

  The area was fairly open with only a scattering of upright poles and a few scraggly trees to block the view. Although the grass was high, she would need to be lying flat on the ground for us not to see her.

  “She’s not here.”

  Becky ran up. “What’s happened?”

  “My sister’s wandered off. Any idea where she could’ve gone?”

  “Shit, I hope she hasn’t fallen into one of the house pits. One of them is pretty deep.” She ran to the far side of the clearing and stopped beside a moss-covered mound that looked to have once been a massive length of timber. On the other side of the mound was a wide, deep rectangular hole, also covered in a thick carpet of green moss. Thankfully, it was empty.

  “What is it?” I asked. “It looks dangerous.”

  “It’s the interior of a chief’s longhouse. The main floor was dug deep into the ground and surrounded by one or two layers of wooden platforms, where family members and slaves lived. The bottom floor was used for cooking and for ceremonial gatherings such as potlatches.”

  At that moment a faint sound of singing drifted from the direction of the beach.

  “What the …” Eric exclaimed. He started to walk toward the sound and Becky and I followed. As we slipped through the trees and onto the beach, Eric was already bent over his sister, who was sitting cross-legged on the pebbles above the tide line. She was clutching something to her breast.

  “What’re you doing?” Eric demanded. “We have to go.”

  Ignoring him, she continued to rock side-to-side, singing a tune that reminded me of the lullaby my nanny used to sing. She was clearly in distress.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  My question only made her rock harder.

  “What are you holding?” I tried to get a glimpse of it, but could only make out that it was a reddish colour.

  “It looks like a carving,” Eric answered.

  “It’s my son’s. Isn’t it beautiful?” Cloë held it up. “I have one just like it. When Eric reached for it, she brought it back to her breast.

  “It is beautifully carved,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  She placed it gently in my outstretched hand.

  It was identical to the whale sculpture we’d seen at her home. With its back arched, its long thin dorsal fin pointed threateningly upward, as if it had just leapt out of the water in pursuit of prey. Jagged teeth lined its gaping mouth, giving it a menacing look.

  “Allie’s initials should be on the bottom.” She turned the whale upside down and pointed to the letters AZ carved into the wood. “He only carved two of them, so where did this one come from? I found it on the beach propped against that tree.” Cloë pointed to a flat boulder wedged against the base of a tree. There were several bluish white shells scattered on its surface and a folded piece of textured paper. I walked over and picked up paper. On the front was a Haida design of an eagle and a raven and on the inside were words written in what I assumed was Haida. I passed it to Becky.

  “Sorry, I can’t read Haida. Auntie knows some, so she might be able to translate. But I don’t know whether we should take it. I think the carving and the shells were left as a sort of memorial. This might be a message to Salaana.”

  “We should respect the wishes of the person who left it,” Eric said.

  Becky nodded and placed the paper back amongst the shells. Eric propped the orca against the tree, partially covering the note to prevent it from blowing away.

  “Do you think Ernest left it?” I asked.

  “That’s my guess,” Eric said.

  “But why?” I asked.

  “This is his clan village,” Becky said. “But where did he get the carving? Besides, why would Ern want to pay homage to Allie, especially here in a place that has nothing to do with him?”

  “Because he feels guilty,” Cloë spat out.

  Fifty-Two

  We were heading away from the serenity of the beach and back out into the rough open water when, without warning, the boat’s outboard motor coughed and sputtered. I tensed. It caught and continued going. But after just a few minutes it stopped altogether with an unnerving puff of smoke.

  “Stupid motor,” Becky muttered as she scrambled to restart it.

  The starter whined, but the engine didn’t catch.

  As the waves tossed us about like driftwood, Cloë and I clung to the railing. While our faces mirrored each other’s fear, Louise’s was twisted in annoyance. “Can’t you get the stupid thing going,” she said.

  “There might be air in the gas line. Let me see what I can do,” Eric offered.

  He lurched toward the stern, bumping into us as he squeezed his way past. Struggling to keep his balance, he fumbled with his bandaged hands until he managed to undo the gas line. He sucked on the line carefully and spat the tiny amount of gas that found its way into his mouth over the side of the boat. Becky reattached the line to the motor and tried the starter again.

  I held my breath.

  Once, twice … and on the third try, the motor roared to life. A cheer went up and we were soon ploughing smoothly through the waves, which wasn’t too soon for me as I’d begun to feel the first twinges of seasickness.

  “Thanks,” Becky called out to Eric. Louise smiled her thanks.

  Eric gave them the victory sign and settled in to enjoy the ride.

  “How’re your hands?” I yelled into his ear.

  He turned around. “They’ll survive. You okay?”

  “I’m fine, but will be a lot better once we get into calmer waters.”

  “That’s my girl. Always up for a bit of adventure, eh?” His eyes twinkled, his dimples erupted.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “If it’s any consolation, we’ll soon be out of this chop. Look where we’re headed.”

  I was too busy hanging on to him to notice that we had veered away from the open sea and were now heading toward the far more civilized-looking water of a large bay surrounded by forest-covered peaks. Within minutes the boat’s bucking diminished to a gentle undulation and I was able to relax. Though I wasn’t sure about Cloë. She was still gripping the railing as if her life depended on it.

  I also noticed a Cheshire Cat grin on her face, which was soon explained when I saw the tip of the orca carving sticking out of her pocket. I wondered
what Ernest’s reaction would be, but then realized that he would likely never find out. But if his offering had been homage to his gods, they would know. How would they react to the missing gift? With anger or understanding?

  After the scene on the beach I was beginning to wonder if this trip was going to be too much for her. She seemed to be clinging more and more to her son’s ashes. Would she be able to let them go?

  I found it curious that Allistair’s teacher had brought his pupil’s carving all the way from Vancouver and left it as an offering on the beach of his ancestral village. Was it out of guilt, as Cloë suggested, or was there another more personal reason? Perhaps he truly mourned the untimely loss of a star pupil and this was his way of showing it. It could also be his way of returning this lost Haida boy to his roots. I was sorry Cloë had removed the carving. I liked the idea of the tiny killer whale being reclaimed by the sea.

  For the next hour we wound our way down what seemed like a fjord, but turned out to be a channel separating Moresby Island from several smaller islands. The water was calm but achingly cold, as I was reminded when inadvertently splashed. Apart from one or two soaring eagles, it was an empty land. Given the steepness of the slopes and the denseness of the forest, I doubt there was much traffic of even the four-legged kind.

  The channel came to an end and once again we journeyed out into a large protected waterway dotted with islands. As we motored along, I kept an eye out for Ernest’s boat, but didn’t see it. The Zodiac’s engine would occasionally hiccup. Each time I held my breath and waited for it to die, but thankfully it didn’t.

  The tree-lined heights closed in again and Becky slowed us to a crawl. Peering intently into the water, she carefully manoeuvred the boat around a rock outcropping and down the middle of a narrow channel.

  “This is Burnaby Narrows,” she said. “The tide is high enough for us to go through now.”

  The waterway seemed no wider than a canal, but judging by the tide line it would broaden substantially as the sea level rose.

  “The water is so clear you can see right to the bottom. I’ll slow down so you can see some of the fabulous sea life that we share our homeland with.”

  “As long as it doesn’t slow us down too much,” Louise said.

  “This won’t take long, Auntie. When we’re through, I’ll go extra fast, okay?”

  “Good.” Unsmiling, Louise crossed her arms and prepared herself for the wait. After a minute or two, she seemed to have second thoughts, for she smiled. “Please, my friends, you must excuse the impatience of an old lady. Becky is right. This is the perfect place to view them.”

  Becky steered closer to the rocky shore. Eric and I hung over the side of the Zodiac. It was like looking into a giant aquarium — nature’s aquarium, or more aptly, Mother Earth’s. A myriad of purple, brown, and green sea anemone waved in the current. Among them lay a tangle of red, orange, and purple starfish. Drifting beside us pulsed numerous brilliant yellow jellyfish and one or two smaller orange ones. Eric pointed to a shifting school of tiny silvery fish that Becky identified as salmon fry.

  We were so intent on watching the gallery below the water that we almost missed the happening on shore.

  “Oh, dear,” Cloë whispered. Her plaintive voice barely registered with me as I bent over the side of the boat, but Eric, more attuned to her moods, looked up.

  “What did you say, Cloë?”

  “I see something moving over there.” She pointed to the opposite shore. “I think it’s a bear.”

  We all turned to look. A massive black bear it was and a well-fed one at that, if his thick, glossy black coat was anything to go by. He was strolling along the boulder-strewn shore flipping rocks. He’d sniff the wet undersides and then move on.

  “He’s looking for crabs,” Becky explained.

  We watched as the bear clamped its mouth onto a large orange crab. The hard-shelled body slowly disappeared inside its mouth, the legs left wriggling outside. They quickly vanished, though, and I winced at the thought of all that shell going through the bear’s digestive tract. Better him than me, I thought.

  “Taan,” Louise said. “It’s the Haida word for bear. In difficult times taan has brought great strength to my clan.” She sighed. “Perhaps it will now.” She said this in a voice that was barely louder than a whisper.

  Uncertain if I’d heard her correctly, I glanced back. She looked troubled. Perhaps worry was the driving force behind her need to get to her village quickly, not just an old woman’s impatience.

  But what was causing this worry? As far as I knew, our trip was nothing but a simple visit to an abandoned village to sprinkle her grandson’s ashes. Though I did find it curious that the trip’s timing was suggested immediately after yesterday’s phone call. She’d seemed unduly troubled when Becky mentioned seeing the carver and his boat at Blue Shell Village. But when the young woman had brought up the possibility of Johnnie being at Llnagaay, the Matriarch had quickly dismissed it as being a ridiculous idea.

  “Becky, we need to get going,” Louise said.

  “Sure, Auntie.” Becky revved up the motor. Once more it hiccupped and sputtered and almost died. She swore, but managed to catch it in time. Soon the engine roared back to life and we were slicing our way through the narrows at perhaps a faster speed than was prudent.

  Eric shouted back to Becky, “I don’t like the sound of that motor. When we get there, I’ll take a good look at it, okay?”

  She nodded in agreement.

  We soon left the channel and entered another large bay.

  “Sorry, Meg,” Becky said. “I’m afraid we’ll hit more rough water when we head back out into Hecate Strait. There’s no interior route to the village.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Soon the waves were crashing over the bow and I was clinging to Eric for dear life again. But Becky piloted the boat like an expert and I kept telling myself that an adventure tour group wouldn’t use such a boat unless they had complete confidence in its abilities to keep clients safe and dry.

  Once again, the motor coughed and died.

  “Shit,” Becky cried out. “What’s wrong with this stupid thing?”

  I muttered, “Oh no, not out here.” I gripped Eric harder.

  The starter motor whined and whined and whined, but I didn’t hear the heartening roar of the engine igniting.

  Eric gave me a reassuring pat before standing and lumbering back to the stern, where he tried to clear the gas line again, this time without success. Believing it must be a problem with the gas tank, Becky switched to the spare tank, but the engine remained dead.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to paddle to shore.” She passed Eric one of the wooden oars. “You take the right and I’ll do the left.”

  The shore seemed miles away from us, with nothing but giant tumbling waves in between.

  Fifty-Three

  After watching Eric trying to pretend that his hands weren’t hurting, I grabbed his paddle and picked up the stroke. It proved impossible to keep the boat on course, so Eric steered as best he could with the dead motor. With my attention riveted on the paddling, I forgot about my fears, despite noticing that we weren’t heading to the immediate shore, but to a point a few kilometres away.

  It was hard work, so it didn’t take long for me to run out of energy. Eric convinced Cloë to take over. Although she only lasted a short while, it was enough for me to recharge. So we continued, with Cloë spelling me off whenever I ran out of oomph. Becky, on the other hand, seemed to be running on high octane and kept going and going like the Energizer Bunny.

  By the time we rounded the point into the calmer waters of a bay, I was exhausted, but I did manage a weak cheer at the sight of a beach a short paddle away. Once my feet were on solid ground, I collapsed on the hard stones. Becky, who wasn’t so invincible after all, joined me, as did Cloë. The three of us lay stretched out, breathing in great gulps of air, until the incoming tide forced us to move.

  “Becky, I’
ll take a look at the motor,” Eric said. “We often have problems with the damn things at the fishing camp I run. Usually a few jiggles and a couple of whacks get them going.” He chuckled. “And in case it doesn’t, do you have an emergency tool kit?”

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  “I think all of us could do with some warming up,” Eric suggested. “Meg, see if you can rustle up some nice hot tea.”

  While Eric worked on the motor, Becky and I carried the heavy food pack, the water container, and the Coleman stove above the tide line to a clearing in the forest that crowded the edge of the beach.

  This was my first up-close look at Haida Gwaii’s famed rainforests and I was overwhelmed. Since old growth white pine grow on Three Deer Point, I was used to the size of tree Mother Earth can produce when left to her own devices, but never in my wanderings in the forests of Eastern Canada had I encountered such monsters. With diameters in excess of five to seven metres, the heights of these red cedars were in back arching territory reaching seventy or eighty metres. According to Becky, these were babies, only a few hundred years old. The six- or seven-hundred-year-old grandmothers were twice the size, but were only found in the inaccessible reaches of the archipelago where loggers had never tread.

  Thick green moss carpeted the ground and anything that lay on it. Rocks, deadfall, and protruding tree roots took on amorphous otherworldly shapes. I even spied a forgotten hiking boot partially consumed by the moss. Though the wind must be buffeting the canopy, at ground level the moss muffled sound to a deadened silence.

  The clearing where we set up our kitchen was relatively flat and large enough should we end up having to camp here. Settling herself on a rock, Louise took control of the stove, saying she’d cooked on stoves like this since long before any of us were born. In short order, she had the kettle heating up on the hissing flame.

  “I think we could all do with some hot soup. We packed some, didn’t we, Becky?” Louise asked.