He grips Girl’s shoulders and turns her to face him. All is not lost. She merely needs a washing. At a bathhouse. No. There will be questions. At a lake or stream then. And she needs clothing. Shoes. Stockings. A dress of some kind. The kind the white children wear. Her hair. He will purchase a comb. Yes. But that will have to be on the morrow. The locking of shop doors can be heard all around them. The town crier bawls out seven o’clock.
Girl mewls faintly.
He releases her and she rubs her shoulders. They walk down Broad Street, keeping to the alleys when they can. In Poodle Alley there is still blood where Obed Kines fell. Even if Kines does not go to jail, he and Boston are even enough. Kines’ right hand will not point at Boston again, for it was broken at the wrist. Nor will Kines’ mouth be accusing him again, for it is missing several teeth.
Near Chinatown is an unused lot with high brush and a mess of stumps. They settle hidden in the middle of this lot. Boston takes bread and hard cheese out of his rucksack and they eat by the smudged glow of a candle. A time later a man stumbles through, mumbling a song. He stops for a long piss not two steps away, but doesn’t notice them, so exquisite is his relief, so quiet are they.
Girl sniffles. Is she crying? He thinks of the Dora woman telling stories to Isabel, how she said it calmed the child.
“Want a story? That keep you quiet?”
“Story, yes, story.”
He tells the story in English, though he heard it first in the Nu-chah-nulth tongue, from the old woman who cooked at Fort Connelly. Equata was her name, and she knew of spells and medicine, and was often called upon to intervene between the living and the dead. And she knew all the stories that ever were, or so the People of the village said.
A great headman had three daughters from his favourite wife. Each one was more beautiful than the last, and the chief was very proud of them. “Have you ever seen such beautiful women?” he asked Crow and Bear and Black Whale, because this was a long time ago, when the People could talk to the Animal People as easily as I talk to you. And Crow and Bear and Black Whale said no, they had never seen such beautiful women, and they asked to marry the daughters, but the headman laughed and said his daughters would never marry. They would stay with him all their lives for no one could love them as well as he could.
Now the headman and the nobles of this village were very rich and owned rights to many hundreds of harvesting grounds, for shellfish, oolichan, salmon and deer, for berries and camas and ferns. And all these grounds gave such abundance that the People never feared the starvation times and had so many goods to store that their longhouses took three days to walk from end to end. And they could have had more, but they were careful to give much to the Animal People, and to give them songs and rituals also, because this is pleasing to the Animal People and is why they return to feed us all.
Now it happened that the headman’s favourite wife died. The headman tore at his hair and wailed for ten days and now he loved his daughters more than ever as they reminded him of his dead wife. And he ordered his People to now give all the food they would have given the Animal People to his three daughters and to give to them also all the songs and rituals.
“But what will they give us in return?” A nobleman asked.
The headman grew so furious at this question that he ordered the nobleman impaled on a stake. This terrified the People altogether and they began to give all their food and all their rituals to the three sisters, just as the chief commanded. And so now the three sisters sat about all day and ate and ate and listened to the songs and took all the presents they were given and hoarded them. And because of all the food they grew and grew and grew until they were taller than the highest trees and fatter than the fattest whale, and still they grew. And now there was not enough to feed them, for they were always hungry and demanded more and more. They had never been without, you see, or had to share or be moderate. And they weren’t beautiful anymore, but hideous, with greasy chins and bulging eyes and hair tangled with animal bones and skin stained with berry juice. And the headman himself was wondering if this was all entirely a good thing. His People, you see, were thin and starving because they gave everything to his daughters and the great longhouses were nearly empty and to make it worse the Animal People weren’t interested in returning in their seasons to the rivers and forests and bays, but went to grounds where other people gave them rituals and songs and food in return for their flesh.
“This has to stop, my daughters, no more can we give you all this food and all these gifts. The People are all starving. Look, even I am starving.” And he showed them his arm that was thin as a stick.
“We’re hungry,” cried the three sisters. “What do we care of your arm! What do we care of the People. We’re hungry and we want gifts.”
“No, my darlings.”
And then the three sisters flew into a rage. Never had they been denied. Never had they gone hungry. The eldest grabbed her father ’round the waist. The second eldest grabbed his arms. And then the youngest bit off his head and swallowed it in one gulp.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “Oh, it is the finest thing I’ve ever eaten!”
After the three sisters ate their father they strode out in the village capturing all the People and eating them raw and eating all the dogs as well. In fact, they ate everything they could find—insects and birds and fishes and berries and oolichan oil and the houses and the canoes—everything that is, except Mouse Woman, who was very old and wise and hid as soon as trouble started. This was easy enough because she was very small and could hide in the crack of a plank. And she listened with her mouse ears as the three sisters munched and belched and fought amongst each other for the choicest portion of human flesh.
Now all this disturbed Mouse Woman mightily, as you might suppose, for she loved a balance to all things and hated what the foolish Chief had done and though she tried to warn him many times he always thought she was just chattering and so chased her off.
Raven, he can help, Mouse Woman decided. But she knew it might not be easy to persuade him because he was selfish himself, and vain and a glutton, too, and often up to no-good tricks. Still, he was the most powerful being about and so she went off in search of him. After many days she found him high in a cedar. He was grooming his feathers and looking proudly all about him.
“Raven, have you heard of the three terrible sisters? They are walking all over the land and draining the streams dry and using whole forests for firewood and eating whole villages of humans and animals both, and they say they are going to eat you, too, because you are said to taste better than anything.”
“Who says I taste so good? Who says? No one has ever eaten me before!” Raven cried.
“Oh, but they can just imagine! And why wouldn’t you taste good? Look how handsome you are and shiny and large.”
“That’s true, I probably taste delicious, but they’ll never know, will they?” And off he flew in search of the three sisters. He searched and searched until finally he saw them roaming around a valley, picking their teeth with trees and scratching their asses with boulders and nearby were shit-heaps the size of mountains and all was quiet because they’d eaten all the birds and anything else that made a sound including the wind.
“Hey, you three! Hey, you three,” he called and they looked up and saw the largest, choicest bird they’d ever seen. The eldest one reached up to catch him. Raven flew just out of her grasp. Now the second eldest leaped up. Now the youngest. They missed him every time and so in this way he led them back to their home village, them jumping and jumping and him bobbing just out of their reach. In fact, they jumped so much that they threw up all the People that they had eaten and all the animals and then all the water from the rivers they had drunk. And they became skinnier and smaller so that by the time they reached the bay of their home village they were only half the size they had been, which was a fair size still. And then Raven turned them to stone. Even now you can see the three sisters, standing in a row out in t
he waves on the edge of the bay. They must act as guardians of the village for all eternity now, and no thanks do they get for it. That is the price for their greed and gluttony. And every time the People see them they remember to give to the Animal People and to make sure that all is kept in balance. But even so the People were never as rich as they once had been, because that was the price for their foolishness.
Boston falls quiet. His throat is dry from talking. Never has he talked so much at once. But it has worked. Girl has fallen asleep, is wrapped in Boston’s coat and huddled in the grass.
Boston does not sleep. He sits with his back against a stump, his revolver on his knees. He positions himself so he can espy people passing in the street. It was near here that Boston saw the Jesuit, Father Gaspar, give Christian names to three Samish in the Spring of ’52—John, Joseph, Jeremiah. Father Gaspar was missing the middle finger of his left hand and the sun gleamed through the gap as he blessed them. Would that things had not changed. It was simple enough once, Fort Victoria abuzz with trade, the rules of the company clear, Douglas ruling it all. One thing was given for another. Everyone’s function was discernible—the blacksmith’s, the cook’s, even the priest’s trading reverence for salvation. But now? What to make, say, of these loud revellers sauntering down Government Street, illuminating their way with no less than four lamps, the three women in bright swishes of dresses, two of the men in regimentals, the third in a top hat and black jacket that forks like a swallow’s tail. They are off to a night of dancing, on one of the Navy ships, perhaps, or at one of the houses of the wealthy. The two men in uniform are Navy men, certainly, but of the women and the other man, who can say?
The men begin singing. Boston knows the song. It is “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” He heard it eight years and ninety-five days ago. Another trapper, distant from him, sang it as he skinned a beaver. And so Boston could sing it, certainly, if he were one for singing.
The song crescendoes, then transforms into laughter. Singing was the first sound he heard when he awoke at Fort Connelly. The memory comes unsought. Boston scowls. Others complain of memories springing up unawares, but this has not happened to Boston since he was beardless and had not yet learned how to keep the myriad images and words trussed until called upon.
He lies on furs on a narrow trestle in a narrow room. Through a doorway he sees an old woman tending a pot. He wonders if he is dead. It seems heaven enough to be warm, to have the smell of food nearby. The woman’s song is a chanting refrain. He did not understand the meaning of the words then, but he recalled the sounds of them, as he was to recall everything he heard and saw from that moment forth.
He is naked but for the binding on his chest. The pain starts from his collarbone, radiates to his shoulder and down to his pelvis. In the old woman’s fire are flames of blue and yellow. On the beams above hang ropes and traps and dried salmon. Stacked against the walls are furs, barrels and sacks. The room is white-washed, though streaked with soot, and it smells of smoke and fish and half-cured hide and of other things he has no name for yet.
The old woman sees his open eyes. She wears a labret and her lower lip juts out like a small shelf. He has never seen such a thing. He reaches out as if to touch her. “Equata,” she says, before she shuffles off, chuckling.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Can you speak English?” The man has a lean face and a sparse beard and a thick, incongruous nose. His hair is a thin net over his pale scalp. “I am Mr. Hiram Illdare, the Chief Trader. The leader here. Do you understand? Good. What do you recall? It is important you tell us. The Indians who brought you here spoke of a ship.”
“Yes.”
“Speak, lad, louder.”
He explains as best he can, with what words he knows as the fragments tumble one on top of the other. A great cracking. A rush of water. Immense cold. A battering of waves. A pebbled beach. A canvas overhead. A shadow figure of a man, cursing and weeping.
“A wreck then, not an assault by the Indians?”
“Wreck. Yes.”
“Do you recall any landmark or positioning? Anything that would help lead us to it.”
“No. no.”
“More survivors. Can you at least recall that? We could hunt for them. It is our duty to do so.”
He clenches his fist to his cheek.
“You believe yourself the only one?”
He nods and fire courses down his chest.
“Is James Milroy your name? Are you from Boston? Is the ship?”
“Forget.”
“Is Milroy your father, then, a relation?”
“No, no father.”
“Well, well. We have two Jameses here already. That’s two enough, eh? We’ll call you Jim, then. Jim of Boston. What of that?”
“Good. Yes.”
Illdare studies him with an odd expression, then abruptly reaches down and strokes the hair from his eyes.
“Mort?” A pockmarked face. Lashings of dark hair. Pale eyes. A coat worn over his shoulders like a cape.
Illdare straightens. His countenance changes, becomes stern as the others crowd in. Their faces are pale and dark. Curious and impassive. Scarred and smooth. They shift aside and the boy sees two women with white blankets around their shoulders, beads in their dark hair. One has a nose ring that glints in the guttering light.
“ ’Ere, now, sir, did he say where the wreck was? Did ya, boy?” The man has yellow hair, a face raked with lines. The boy cringes before the rankness of his breath, looks to Illdare.
“The Indians would have scavenged the cargo by now. Leave him, all of you. Now.”
The one with the pockmarks and pale eyes says: “Last rite, if die. It duty.”
“You are not a priest, Lavolier. You seem to have forgotten that.”
“He go purgatory.”
“And where do you think he is now, you popish ghoul?”
≈ ≈ ≈
The night is half gone. Boston watches Girl sleep. She is curled up in the grass, his coat covering her completely. She makes no sound. He crouches beside her and draws the coat back from her face. Her head is pillowed in her arms. Now he can hear her breathing faintly. Briefly he places his hand on her forehead, on her damp hair.
Eighteen
Addendum to the Gentleman’s Guide
Should the Gentleman find that he is short of monetary accoutrements or, indeed, that he has been robbed most ignominiously while he peaceably slept at the way house known as Mrs. Jones House at the mark of 145 miles from the town of Lilloet of the Harrison route—a way house this author most strongly recommends avoiding like a house with the mark of the plague—then he may find that it is not unnecessary (unless he be one who can subsist upon berries and squirrels) to labour to thus have the means with which to eat & with which to later stake his claim in the goldfields which are so close they beckon like spirits in the mist.
The foreman bawls out eight o’clock and the road-clearing crew ceases their hacking of trees and brush. Eugene dumps his wheelbarrow for the last time, wipes his brow clean of the grime engendered by the burning slash. A horse is unhitched from a go-devil and stands ex-hausted in the waning light. Some distance behind, the road-building crew takes up their mattocks and pickaxes and hammers. All the men carry their own belongings, even the crew that builds the bridges and culverts and that is paid more than any, and certainly the crew of Chinamen and Indians that is paid the least and works apart from all the others entirely.
“No storm tonight,” the foreman announces with the certainty of a prophet.
Eugene rubs bacon fat on his mosquito welts until he feels fit for the frying pan. From his flask he dribbles water onto his hands that are admirably begrimed and calloused after only ten days of labouring like a convict. A week more by most calculations. Then the road will be built entirely to the steamer dock at Soda Creek. Then Eugene will have fulfilled his contract and will have his pay, though the $1.50 a day will hardly make up for the £50 the thieves took from his pocket while he slept. Thankfu
lly it was not the entirety of his money. The piddling rest was lining his boots. Fortunate he often sleeps with them on these days. Only in the last few days has he been able to think of his misfortune and not grow near apoplectic with rage.
≈ ≈ ≈
From the back of a chuckwagon a stout Chinaman serves up stew, pigeon pie, beans, pemmican, bread, blueberry cobbler, coffee. Eugene is ravenous. Looks about for his tent mates—Young George Bowson and Langstrom the Swede. Spies Langstrom far up in the line, sidles next to him, tin plate used as a shield. Men mutter, too tired to protest outright.
“Are we ready for this evening, Langstrom? Ready?”
Langstrom vigorously nods, his ever-present pipe dangling from his lips like an elongated tooth. He has a perpetual squint, a heads-down walk, a beard that lies flattened against his chest. Seems in all as if he were raised in the brunt of a fierce wind. How he arrived this far and this alone is a mystery to Eugene, for Langstrom has barely any English and relies on energetic pantomime and gestures that might be taken for those of a madman. When Eugene asked after his family by indicating the shape of a woman, the low height of children, Langstrom gathered perhaps thirty sticks. Sticks ran away, lay with forbidden sticks. Sticks were born. Sticks were orphaned. Or abandoned. It was difficult to tell. Sticks fought. “Bad,” said Langstrom and snapped a stick in half and cast it into the fire.
“Quite so,” said Eugene, as if he understood completely, and perhaps he did. One story or misery and failed hope was, after all, becoming much like another.
They sit on rocks, their plates balanced on their knees. Young George joins them. Greets Eugene as he always does, as if he has not seen him for days. Mosquitoes settle on his thick shoulders like a mantle, on his flaxen hair that is already thin enough to show the vulnerability of his scalp. Poor bastard, thinks Eugene, not for the first time. It must be the young man’s taut ruddy skin that attracts the damned bloodsuckers like beggars to a banquet. Unfortunately for Eugene and Langstrom, Bowson believes that unwashed skin and fervent prayer will keep the mosquitoes at bay.
Reckoning of Boston Jim Page 19