Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 02 - The Dark Place

by The Dark Place

  The other old man appeared to be no less frightened than he’d been at the gravel bar. As he had then made pitifully threatening motions with an ax, now he gestured feebly and intermittently with the wooden-pronged harpoon he’d been binding.

  With every step of the two intruders, the four old people drew closer together still, drawing strength from each other’s nearness. When Julie and Gideon, moving very slowly, were ten feet away, the oldest man could bear it no longer and spoke nervously to the young Indian. The others quickly joined in, so that all four of them were chattering at once in whispery agitation. The young one barked a few curt words and they stopped immediately, looking, Gideon thought, a little sheepish.

  He had grasped enough of the words and body language to understand the exchange. The old ones were frightened and wanted to run off right then; the young man, surprisingly, had told them that would be unthinkably rude, kuu Yahi—not the Yahi way. Guests were to be treated with respect. Gideon found himself wondering if Eckert and the others had been treated with respect but pushed the thought from his mind. It was, he decided, time for his piece de resistance, the only complete and formally correct speech he had managed to memorize in Yahi.

  "I bring gifts in your honor," he said. "I apologize for their being poor and worthless and not to be compared with your own belongings, but I beg you to accept them."

  He delivered his little address with what he hoped were properly expansive gestures, but nonetheless he experienced a slight sinking sensation as he spoke. A rubber turtle in their honor?

  The four older Indians, who were still huddled together, showed for the first time that they could understand him. Quick glances moved among them, and the man with the big, gentle, pockmarked face looked him shyly in the eye for an instant before shifting his gaze downward.

  Even the young Indian seemed a little taken aback. The curl left his lip, and he too stared Gideon in the eye, for once without insolence. "No," he said. "First we eat. Then gifts." He was being very proper—the Yahi way again—and he was speaking very slowly and simply, apparently so that Gideon could understand.

  "What’s going on?" Julie said. "Are we in trouble?"

  "Only if the food’s bad. We’ve just been invited to dinner."

  The food, at least to begin with, was far from bad. The woman, with some help from the old men, uncovered a pit-oven—a hole in the ground lined with rocks and covered with damp branches—releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. From the hole she scooped out four small fish with a green stick that had been looped and tied at one end. The fish were placed at Gideon and Julie’s feet in a much-used platter-shaped basket. There was no ceremony and no speech. The food was simply plumped down in front of them as it might have been by a tired counterman in an all-night diner.

  The young Indian suddenly threw himself to the ground and sprawled on one elbow, watching them. He was, Gideon noted, in easy reach of his spear. The others followed his lead and squatted on their heels, clasping bony knees in skinny arms. Their faces were impassive.

  Gideon and Julie sat down on the ground. Gideon reached for a fish.

  "Gideon!" Julie said. "You’re not going to eat this, are you? They’ve given us their own dinner."

  "Of course I am," he said, picking up a fish, pushing back the skin with his fingers, and biting into the tender white flesh of the back. "Eat up, Julie. If you don’t, it would be implying that it isn’t good enough for you, or that they don’t have enough for them and us both."

  "Well, they don’t."

  "But it would be rude to suggest it. They’re being very mannerly, and we should be, too. For all we know, three people have already been killed because they weren’t sufficiently decorous. Now shut up and eat."

  The Indians had been watching them silently. When Julie and Gideon spoke to each other, it aroused not a flicker of interest. The Yahi appeared not to notice. It was as if they were a couple of dogs muttering to each other.

  Gideon held up his fish and smiled at the Indians. "Good!" he said in Yahi, smiling and chewing. There was no response.

  "Gideon," Julie said, reaching irresolutely for a fish, "do you really think these people are killers? They’re more frightened of us than we are of them. Except him." She tipped her head toward the reclining Big Cheese, who seemed bored and impatient with watching the saltu eat. "You can practically see the hatred oozing out of him."

  Gideon nodded. "Yes, the others don’t look exactly bloodthirsty. I think that as long as we’re not alone with Big Cheese we’re safe."

  Julie clawed a tiny piece of meat loose, popped it in her mouth, and licked her fingers. "Even if we were alone with him, I wouldn’t be too worried. I don’t think you’d have much trouble with him. Just don’t you leave me alone with him."

  Sitting there, living through one of the century’s anthropological summits, the distinguished professor glowed just as much, and for precisely the same reason, as he had when he was thirteen years old and Ruthie Nettle said she bet he could beat up Meat Baumhoff. He picked up another trout, bit it, and waved it directly at Big Cheese. "Good fish!"

  "Can’t you talk to them?" Julie asked uneasily. "It’s awfully uncomfortable sitting here with them just staring at us."

  "I don’t think you understand how little Yahi I know. It’s strictly Me-Lone Ranger-You-Tonto."

  "Well, what about that? Wouldn’t it be polite to ask their names? Tell them ours?"

  "No, it’d be rude. And they’d never tell. No white person ever found out a Yahi’s name."

  "What about Ishi?"

  "That wasn’t his name," Gideon said. "’Ishi’ is a nickname. It’s just what Kroeber dubbed him. It means ‘man’ in Yahi." He sucked the last shreds of meat from the ribs of the fish, taking pains to show noisy appreciation, and picked up another. The Indians watched stolidly. "To them the purpose of a name isn’t to label someone, it’s a placation of a dead ancestor, a magical source of power—"

  Surprisingly, Julie burst out laughing. "Here we are in the middle of this scene right out of King Solomon’s Mines, and you’re delivering a lovely, stuffy lecture from Introduction to Primitive Kinship Systems."

  To show her he wasn’t at all stuffy, he suggested they assign the Yahi nicknames and suggested Shy Buffalo for the soft man with the big body and the gentle eyes, and Startled Mouse for the small, tremulous man he’d seen at the gravel bar. The young one, of course was Big Cheese. Julie chipped in with Gray Sparrow for the old woman, and Keen Eagle for the patriarchal old man.

  When they finished the fish, Gray Sparrow groped for the basket she’d been working over earlier, a well-woven, watertight cooking basket with the Yahi stepped design on it, and began stirring again.

  "The next course, I think," Gideon said. "Have you ever had acorn mush?"

  "No. Am I about to?"

  "Yes," he said, making a face. "A rare treat."

  Every few moments Gray Sparrow would use two sticks to deftly lift a heated, round stone from the fire, dip it quickly into a small pot of water to wash off the ashes, and drop it into the basket. One of the sticks was used to keep the stones rolling about so that the basket wasn’t burned, and in a very few minutes the pale mush was boiling. The stones were removed, and the large basket was set down in front of Gideon and Julie.

  This course was to be communal. First Big Cheese slouched over offhandedly and sat down near the basket. Without waiting for the others, he dipped two fingers into it and slurped up the yellowish-white porridge. Then, by means of a brusque gesture with the same hand, he told Gideon and Julie to do likewise, which they did, Julie with only a momentary hesitation. A turn of his head over his shoulder and a few abrupt words brought the older Indians up to the basket like a family of shy deer ready to bolt at the first move of the saltu.

  The bland, oily acorn mush was consumed in near-silence, with Gideon and Julie eating little. Gideon made friendly overtures several times, but the Yahi wouldn’t even meet his eyes, let alone respond.

  When it was done,
another platter, of fish and root vegetables, came from the oven. This was politely if indifferently offered to Julie and Gideon, who declined.

  "Too much," Gideon said in Yahi, patting his stomach and smiling. "Good."

  The Indians ate, stuffing the food into their mouths but never taking their eyes off the strangers.

  "Feel better?" Gideon asked. "It looks like they have plenty."

  "Much better," Julie said.

  Afterward, the old Indians crept away again and looked at them from a distance, but now there was a touch of expectancy, naive and even charming, in their faces. They hadn’t forgotten the gifts. Gideon opened his pack and looked through what he’d brought. If they’d never seen a mirror before, it would be a first-rate way to begin.

  "Here goes," he said to Julie. "Unless I miss my guess, Big Cheese is the kind of guy who’ll find his own face the most fascinating thing in the world."

  With a smile, he held one of the pocket mirrors out to him, tilting it so that the Indian would see his own reflection when he looked at it. But he wouldn’t look at it. He turned his head away with his eyes closed, as a privileged infant might show his contempt for a proffered spoonful of mashed peas. When Gideon persisted, the naked arm flicked out in an impatient, backhanded swipe, sending the little mirror to the ground, where it struck a stone and cracked in two. The old Indians watched, blank-faced and reserved.

  Gideon took a deep breath. "Not exactly a howling success," he said to Julie. "Let’s hope some of the other things appeal to them more."

  He took the four ball-bearing necklaces from his backpack and let them dangle from his hand. Big Cheese watched disdainfully, but the others craned their necks to see, nonetheless maintaining their prudent distance. Giving Big Cheese a wide berth, Gideon began to walk slowly toward them, holding the necklaces out and murmuring what he hoped were soothing sounds.

  The Indians were obviously torn between their curiosity and the desire to run, but they held their ground and at last Shy Buffalo stretched out a tentative hand. Gideon, however, quickly slipped the necklace over his head so that it lay like a collar, burnished and sleek, on the dark, rough skin of his mantle. There was a shocked silence, and Gideon wondered momentarily if he’d violated some sacrosanct Yahi norm. But then Shy Buffalo’s big face split in a slow grin, and his fingers moved over the smooth, heavy beads of steel.

  Gideon held out the necklaces to the others, as if he was coaxing pigeons with bread crumbs, and they came. He gave one to each of the other three, and they placed them around their own necks, murmuring to each other in gentle surprise at the weight of the ball bearings. They were definitely beginning to thaw—except for Big Cheese, who remained off on one side, grim and uncommunicative.

  "How did you know to bring four?" Julie asked.

  "Dumb luck. Let’s hope it keeps up."

  It was the curtains that scored the major success, but not in the way expected. When Gideon tore open the package, there were murmurs of astonishment, and four pairs of hands reached not for the bright cloth but for the clear plastic wrapping. They held it up to their eyes, pressed it onto their faces, and crinkled and uncrinkled it. The curtains themselves were fingered politely and ignored.

  In almost two hours, none of the old Yahi had spoken directly to the saltu, but Gideon’s hangdog expression as he stood holding the unwanted curtains finally broke through the communication barrier. With no preliminaries, Keen Eagle suddenly addressed Gideon at length. Excited at finally making verbal contact, Gideon wanted desperately to understand, but not a single word was intelligible.

  "I don’t understand," he said miserably. "Ulisi."

  Keen Eagle gestured at the towel and repeated what he had said, this time shouting directly into Gideon’s ear.

  "I don’t understand," Gideon repeated with a helpless gesture.

  The Indians stared at each other and whispered incredulously. Their meaning was clear: Is it truly possible that a human being might not understand our language? Astounding!

  Gray Sparrow also had a try at shouting into Gideon’s ear, but Shy Buffalo solved the problem by spitting on the curtain, taking Gideon’s hand, rubbing it over the wet spot, and gesturing expressively: What good is material that gets wet?

  In the rain forest, it was a persuasive point. "Ah, I understand," Gideon said in Yahi.

  "Ah, I understand," they repeated to each other, delighted, mimicking Gideon’s outlandish accent but without malice. There was considerable good-natured laughter in which Gideon joined, with the feeling that the ice was broken at last.

  When he dipped into the knapsack and fished out Squeekie the Turtle there was more laughter, which increased when he squeezed it to produce its soft bleat.

  There was a rough, abrupt movement at his side, and a muscular arm swept down to knock the toy to the ground. Gideon was considerably startled and sprang back; he had almost forgotten about Big Cheese. The young Indian stared at him, fierce and combative, his hand gripping the head of the ax at his belt. In the sudden silence the older Yahi melted back.

  Gideon reached behind him and gently pushed Julie away. He didn’t know what had angered Big Cheese, but if his hand so much as began to pull the ax from his waistband, he would spring. He’d go for the ax with his left hand and chop at the Yahi’s throat with his right forearm. His eyes focused on the prominent Adam’s apple in the muscled throat, and his body coiled. It was hardly orthodox behavior for an anthropologist, but that ax had nearly killed him once, and he wasn’t going to give it another chance.

  Big Cheese seemed to read his intentions. He dropped his hand casually away from the ax, an Old West gunman whose bluff had been called. His veiled eyes, always hostile, changed their expression perceptibly from bellicosity to mere contempt. The full lips, which had been rigid and pale, reformed into a derisive curl.

  The harsh tension in the air eased. Gideon began to breathe again and heard Julie inhale deeply behind him. The four elderly Yahi, once again shrunken into their tight little knot, eased slightly apart. Gideon knew that he had won something, although he wasn’t sure what, and it seemed like a good time to consolidate his gains. With a firm glance at Big Cheese, who watched him without moving, he bent to pick up the rubber toy and walked swiftly to the huddle of Indians. He’d seen Gray Sparrow’s face light up when he’d squeezed the turtle, and he squeezed it again, then placed it in her hand, closing her fingers over it so that it made its little noise.

  "Squeekie," Gideon said, and closed her hand over it once more. She tried it herself, and the worn, blind old face shone with pleasure. "Kweekee!" she crowed. "Kweekee!" She squeezed it some more, holding it up to her ear and emitting great peals of laughter, which exhibited a set of gray gums barren but for one nub of a brown molar on each side. Gideon laughed with her, and soon the others were laughing too. Astoundingly, even Big Cheese smiled slightly, and for a moment his feline eyes seemed to glow with something like warmth.

  Pleased with their progress, Gideon presented the cigarette lighter. As expected, it brought gasps when he used it to ignite a few twigs at the edge of the fire. Only two of the Yahi could be coaxed to try it, however, and neither Keen Eagle nor Shy Buffalo could get it to work. Their fingers were clumsy on the unfamiliar object, and they held it upside down, or in both hands, or dropped it altogether, in spite of Gideon’s patient guidance. Both grew frustrated and sulky within minutes, and Gideon thought it best to put the lighter in the pocket of his jacket.

  This caused a sensation. Pockets, it appeared, were as intriguing as clear plastic wrapping. Gideon was made to take the lighter out of his pocket and put it back in a dozen times, and soon Keen Eagle, Shy Buffalo, and Gray Sparrow were trying it. Startled Mouse hung skittishly back, as usual, and Big Cheese, who had threatened neither action nor speech since the affair of the turtle, was disdainful, miles above this saltu claptrap.

  All in all, the presents had been a success. Most of the Yahi now milled about Gideon and even touched him with no apparent fear. Gideon thou
ght it might be time to try to do what he had come to do.

  "Chief," he said, using the Yahi honorific to address Big Cheese, "we talk now."

  Big Cheese pointed at Shy Buffalo with his chin. "He is the chief," he said surprisingly.

  Shy Buffalo smiled diffidently. "Yes, I am the chief." His manner of speaking was halting and slow, and Gideon could follow the intent of it, which was more than he could say for the throaty, rapid speech of the other older Yahi. Before they could talk, Shy Buffalo said, the saltu must also have gifts. He gestured for them to follow, turned, and walked slowly toward the larger of the two huts.

  Inside, the hut was about twelve feet in diameter, larger than the ones on Pyrites Creek and tall enough to stand in, but otherwise like them. The curving walls, made of rushes tied over a framework of scouler willow poles, were smoke-blackened and greasy with the fires of many winters. The sweet and pungent smells of smoke, human beings, and not too finically preserved meat were strong, but on the whole it was not unpleasant. Near the low entrance was a pile of baskets, some finished, some incomplete, some with the stepped Yahi design, some plain. There were cooking baskets, sifting baskets, and open-weave carrying baskets; all Gray Sparrow’s handiwork, no doubt.

  Along the wall was more basketry: lidded storage hampers. Some were open, showing plentiful supplies of dried, nearly black meat cut in strips, dried whole fish, and seeds and roots Gideon didn’t recognize.

  "I can stop worrying about them going hungry," Julie said. "There’s enough right here for them to live on for three months."

  Around the ashy fire pit in the center there were three rumpled, comfortable-looking blankets of sewn-together, brown rabbit skins. Other objects were scattered over the floor: a fire drill hearth with the drill upright in its hole, a scruffy deer’s head filled with grass—hunting decoy, probably—two stone hammers, a few spears and harpoons leaning against the wall, stone knives, hand adzes, some unfinished notched wooden hafts. And an atlatl.