You will be the last.
The small boy cried in English, ‘My turn — my turn,’ and Marta sang the next song for him.
I want to pursue the swimmer like my father.
I want to hunt the bear like my father.
When I am grown, my father will lack nothing.
Then Marta saw Mark standing there, the weariness plain on his face. She shooed the children away with a gesture, and Mark sat down on the log beside her.‘You are tired,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
They sat then without talking, listening to the mewing of the gulls, watching two sleek black ravens in the alders across the river. Presently Mark saw a sight he could not at first believe — he saw Mrs Hudson come to the beach, wade into the water, climb into a canoe, and pole into the middle of the river to dump her garbage.
‘The old have returned,’ he said cautiously, ‘I did not see them at the funeral.’
‘You did not see them because there were so many.’
‘They are leaving again?’
‘No, they have returned to stay.’
He was so grateful he did not trust himself to speak. Then Chief Eddy came along the beach by the river’s edge, and saw them sitting there on the log and drew close.
‘Mark,’ he said, ‘the men have asked me to tell you that when you are ready to build a new vicarage, they will help you. It would be wise to get it up before the rains come.’
‘I will write the Bishop today. Will you tell the men I am grateful?’
Then they were alone. But there was a difference now. The cautious waiting was over. The night Mark wrote to the Bishop and the Bishop’s answer affirmed it. ‘You suffered with them, and now you are theirs, and nothing will ever be the same again.’
PART THREE
Che-kwa-lá
12
THE MEN OF THE VILLAGE tore down the vicarage. The old boards were cut and shared with all for firewood. The foundation for the new house was prepared according to the blueprints which the Bishop sent, and Mark went to live at Marta’s house where she spoiled him with Indian delicacies, berry sprouts cooked with alder and salal, and salmon eggs baked with milkweed, topped with fern. Usually Jim dined with them, and often Keetah, and the times Mark liked best were the long summer twilights when the elders dropped in to speak of the old culture.
They were all alike, the old, tied by a common bond. ‘We are the only ones left who remembered the old ways and if we do not speak now, they will be forgotten.’
Sometimes Mark was appalled at how much was gone, how little they remembered from their long past, and he encouraged Keetah to write down the small treasures that floated up in the old minds :
‘And the little girl of the family took the bones of the first halibut to the water’s edge, and gave them back to the sea, and she said, “Come again, Mr Halibuu-u-u-t, come again next year.” ’
And the young men strolled through the village singing the old love songs, and the songs were always of absence and of sorrow, and they spoke from the heart.’
‘I went with my mother to strip the bark from the young cedar and I remember that she spoke to the tree. She said, “Forgive me because I seek your dress. I will not leave you naked,” and she told the tree what she would make from the bark — a blanket, and a pillow for her baby’s head.’
‘I was afraid of the hamatsa dance. I was afraid of the men who looked so fierce with their heads wreathed with hemlock, and their bearskins tied with cedar rope.’
‘We went in the sixty-foot canoe to buy gifts for my uncle’s potlatch, and we spent all we had, and gave away all our blankets. That winter we were cold and the children cried.’
The first weekend Gordon was home from fishing with his uncle, he came to Marta’s house, bringing three boys who had been with him at the Indian school and who wished also to board with a white family and go to school in a white man’s town.
When Gordon was there, Jim did not come or the elders. Gordon was not interested in the past. His mind reached only ahead with that urgent intensity which makes you seem selfish, and is so necessary to difficult accomplishment.
‘Do you think I can do it?’ he would ask Keetah. ‘What do you think?’ and she would answer, ‘I know you can. Of course you can.’
When Gordon returned to the fishing, the elders returned, Keetah’s dark head bent again to her notebook, and Jim reasserting the old role of the tribal male, pounding on the table when he wished coffee, and Keetah, putting down her pen to wait on him without a look, without a word.
When the freight boat deposited the new prefabricated vicarage on the float at the end of the inlet, those men of the tribe who were not off fishing went by canoe to see and consult. There waited the vicarage — every beam, every shingle, every nail, to be carried up the wilful river. Even Calamity Bill came in his ancient rowboat with its ancient outboard motor, and the younger hand-logger, the summer sun shining on his hard hat, and all of them nodded their heads and agreed that the easiest and the quickest way to get the makings of the vicarage to the village was to hire a forestry barge at a prodigious thirty dollars a day.
It took two days and two nights to transfer the lumber to the barge, to manoeuvre it carefully up the river, past the snags and the sand bars, and to unload it. Sometimes, at night, Mark would stop working a moment to watch. The whole tribe helped. Even some of the women waded into the cold water to help carry the larger pieces, while the small boys bent their backs to the kegs, and in the flickering lantern light Keetah’s dark head bent to the coffee pot as she filled cups, and carried them to the river’s edge. On the third morning the forestry barge was returned and the new vicarage lay on the green grass of the meadow.
Now,’ said Chief Eddy, proudly, ‘we will put up the house.’
For six weeks the village was filled with a constant activity. Every available man — and even some of the women — helped put up the new vicarage. It must be done before the heavy rains of August, and for another reason of which no one spoke. In August, for the first time, the Indian was to be permitted to buy liquor.
All day long and into the long twilight the sound of hammering continued, accompanied by laughter and the shouts of the men, and by the shuffling of feet under the loads of timber.
One July night the inlet became a small and lovely city of lights. The gill-netters — a hundred and fifty of them — were fishing for salmon, drifting slowly with the will of wind and tide, their nets extended to the full twelve hundred feet, and the three lights on each ship rising and falling with the tidal sweep. And the villagers went by canoe to watch and marvel.
Now when Mark and Jim moved up and down the inlet in the little speed boat on patrol, they had to take care lest they foul the lines. Often men on the gillnetters yelled loudly and boisterously, ‘Watch where you’re going, you fools. Look out for that net—,’ the finest words Mark had heard here because they could be said only by one friend to another which meant he was one of them.
When the gill-netting in the inlet was over, the little city of lights went out in the summer night, and the smaller children asked anxiously, ‘Where has it gone? Will it come again?’ and the inlet was empty as the room is empty when the Yule tree is stripped and carried out into the rain.
These were the lovely days of summer; the water of the inlet deep green from the shadows of the spruce, the children in and out of the river all day long, agile as seals, and the village full of laughter.
When the new vicarage was done at last there was a brief respite until the new furniture, chosen by the wife of the Archdeacon at the Bishop’s request, was delivered to the float to be carried up-river.
Mark and Jim took Marta, and the two children who had been his first friends, on a picnic. In a cove where there was a small sandy beach they spread their supper on a driftwood log, and in the long twilight, because it was a time of much phosphorescence, they lingered to watch the fish jump and fall back into pools of golden light. And the barefoot children ran backwards to
watch their small footprints glowing in the dark sand.
When they returned up the river in the soft quiet night and reached the village, Mark carried the little girl ashore and Jim the boy, and when they delivered them to their parents, Mark walked alone by the river’s edge, clinging to the lovely day. ‘Don’t go – not yet – not yet—’ but the day slipped away as fast as any other.
The freight boat dumped the new furniture on the float. The men brought it up the river and set it in place. The women pressed the new curtains and hung them, and the little children crept inside the new doors to touch nothing, to stand big-eyed and marvel, and the Bishop was asked to come bless the vicarage, a tribal feast planned in his honour.
The younger wives went at once to the house of Mrs Hudson, sitting before her in a respectful circle, and they said in Kwákwala, ‘What shall we serve?’
‘Barbecued salmon.’
‘How many?’ and Mrs Hudson considered it carefully and said, ‘Twenty.’
‘What vegetables?’
‘Mashed turnips.’
‘How many?’
‘Forty pounds.’
The Bishop sent word that he would arrive on the hospital ship early on Sunday morning, and that he had asked six city rectors to join him in a retreat in the village, and that they would be deposited at Gilford Island by seaplane Saturday noon.
Mark and Jim met the clergy at Gilford village. On the way to Kingcome, near Whale Pass, they saw a huge black bear swimming across the narrow channel, and stopped the boat and drew alongside. On an impulse, Jim picked up a line from the deck and tossed the noose neatly over the bear’s head. Up came two huge claws and a furiously shaking black head, full of teeth, and emitting loud growls, and the town rectors began to laugh and yell, while Mark grabbed the axe, cut the rope, and the bear headed shorewards.
When they reached the home float and transferred to the canoes a heavy mist hung over the river, the landlubber clergy tried desperately to find a comfortable way to perch on the one-by-four pieces that formed the seats, the water gurgling ominously, Jim’s torch seeking the log jams and the snags. When they reached the vicarage, Keetah and old Marta were waiting at the door of the new vicarage to ask, ‘And how did you like coming up our river?’
Two of the clergy stayed with Mark in the new vicarage, sleeping on the sofa, the big bed in the spare bedroom reserved, of course, for the Bishop, and the remaining four of the visitors were lodged in the homes of the Indians. In mid-morning of the next day, the hospital ship tied up at the float, and when the canoe came up-river with the Bishop, Caleb was with him, wading ashore in his ancient hip boots. But the Bishop had no Kingcome slippers and was carried piggyback to the bank.
For the service the church was filled. Caleb baptized two babies. The Bishop confirmed three of the younger Indians, and gave the sermon and blessed. the vicarage. When it was done, he said to Marta, ‘Where was Mrs Hudson?’ and when Marta replied that Mrs Hudson was ill, he said, ‘Then I must take her communion.’
The Bishop went first up the path through the woods carrying his staff, Mark following with the chalice and the paten. They found Mrs Hudson propped on pillows, her breath coming in small, short gasps, and Mark, who had cherished the unchristian idea that Mrs Hudson’s old nose was badly out of place because the Bishop was housed in the new vicarage instead of her house, as had long been his custom, was ashamed of himself and sure she was about to die.
When they left, the Bishop stood a moment outside the door and he said loudly, ‘What a pity Mrs Hudson will not be able to dance tomorrow after the tribal dinner. No one dances as well as Mrs Hudson. No one.’
That night the combined clergy prepared dinner in the new vicarage kitchen, and Mark told Caleb about the four boys who were going out to school.
‘Have you found homes for them?’ Caleb asked. ‘If not, I will help you. You don’t want them with families who will say, “Are they dirty? Do they steal?” I’ll make the arrangements and you bring them to me.’
In the morning the kitchen was turned into a clinic, busy with the doctor treating all assorted aches and pains. At noon one of the Indians broke his arm when the kicker on his canoe acted up, and he had to be taken to the hospital ship to have it X-rayed and set. In the afternoon the village was filled with the fragrance of the salmon barbecuing on the alder fires. The community feast was held in the social hall, and when it was over the visitors and the tribe moved to the ceremonial house. When the women began the dancing, there was Mrs Hudson, turning right because the wolf turns right, the sequins of her ceremonial blanket shining in the firelight, her face pink with pleasure. And the Bishop leaned to Mark and said gently, ‘I have seen it happen many times. I cannot explain it.’
Caleb and the clergy left the hospital ship at six the next morning, the sky laden, the breeze cool. When the Bishop left at nine, an hour more suitable to his station, the rain was heavy. As he and Mark climbed into the speedboat, another passenger appeared. Dolores, one of the young Indian women, whose first baby was not due for a month, had started labour and asked to be taken to the hospital at Alert Bay.
They went down river in a torrential rain, the young wife and the Bishop cowering under a polythene sheet. When they reached the boat at the float, they had to wait only moments before the tiny seaplane came, as ordered, to carry the Bishop to Vancouver Island. The young bush pilot was properly appalled by the imminent prospect of birth.
‘What’ll I do?’ he said to Mark. Mark said, ‘Nonsense. Just loop the loop – it’ll all come out. Get going now.’ And he said softly to Dolores, ‘Hang on to it. Do you hear me?’
‘Oh, I will, I will—.’
‘You are worrying because the day after tomorrow the tribe will be able to buy liquor?’ the Bishop asked Mark as he climbed on the plane.
‘A little, my lord; I am afraid some of my best parishioners will end up in the gutter.’
‘The church belongs in the gutter. It is where it does some of its best work.’
Then the little seaplane skittered across the water like a bug, lifted and turned. Mark saw Dolores’ small determined smile. The young pilot waved. The Bishop lifted his hand, as if in blessing. He was alone on the float there in the wilderness, a drop of something wet on his cheek that was not rain.
13
AUGUST BEGAN WITH FLOODS. For days the rain poured down and the river rose until it lapped at the top step of the new vicarage, covering the path and the meadow, the villagers paddling from house to house by canoe. When the river went down, a small slide damaged the dam, and while the women carried water in pots and pails, Mark and the older men repaired the dam. In the night Mark could hear the footfalls of the men checking the moorings of the canoes, and he could hear the drip-drip of the rain, which had become a part of life itself, so that when it ceased, the world was filled suddenly with a strange, unnatural silence. Then the skies cleared, the sun shone, the weather turned suddenly warm, and the mosquitoes and the ‘no-seeums’ emerged in hungry swarms.
August was a month of worry and waiting. Every time Mark went on patrol to the other villages, he returned filled with anxiety. At Gilford the captain of the freight boat told him the fishermen of the tribe had spent at least two thousand dollars on liquor in one week at Alert Bay. They had met other tribes with whom they had never been friendly, and there had been fights, even fights with knives, and it was said several Indians had gambled away their boats.
Coming home from Gilford one warm afternoon, Mark found a splendid, large American yacht tied at the float in the inlet. There was no one aboard, and when he and Jim moored their own boat and climbed into the speedboat, they could see through the portholes the rich polished helm, the gleaming mahogany of the main cabin with its elaborate bar.
When they came up the river to the village, a shabby speedboat was pulled up on the beach and a young logger in a plaid shirt perched on the bank, who explained that the yacht owner had paid him to bring his party here.
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bsp; There were three women and four men, and as he walked up the path to the vicarage, Mark could hear chatter and gay laughter, and when he passed the vicarage, he could see them — the women in their tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters, the yacht owner in his white jacket and gold braided cap.
They were swatting mosquitoes and horseflies, gawking in the windows of the church, and the voices of the women had a shrill quality he had almost forgotten. ‘Look — look at the funny man at the bottom of the totem.’
When he approached and introduced himself, they were most affable.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked the yacht owner, and Mark said he belonged here; he lived here. And one of the women said, ‘How do you tell the Indians apart?’ and Mark said, the same way she told her friends apart, because she knew them.
He showed them the village and he answered their questions, and, when they were ready to go, he went with them to the river bank. When the yacht owner saw his speedboat, he said, ‘I wonder if you would take us to the yacht in your boat? The mosquitoes are eating us alive, and the logger’s tub is too slow. It would mean a little money in your collection plate.’ And Mark said, no, they would have to return the way they had come, and he noticed that Jim had picked up a stick and was drawing on the sands the picture of a dollar bill.
‘If you come to southern California, you must look us up,’ said the wife of the yacht owner. ‘We will show you our big parish,’ and he knew he would never see it, and that she knew it also.
They climbed into the logger’s boat and pushed off, and the river took them. They were on their way back to a life he no longer knew, as distant as another planet, and he was glad to see them go — and a little ashamed of it.
He looked at the picture in the sand.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked, and Jim answered, ‘It means an American stood here.’
That weekend for the first time there was much drunkenness in the village. Three of the fishermen came home, reeling up the dark path. From Sam’s house in the night came sounds Mark had never heard here, a woman’s voice in a high, drunken giggle, and in the moonlight he saw Mrs Hudson march down the path like a thunderhead and up the steps. Instantly the laughter stopped.
I Heard The Owl Call My Name Page 7