by Mary Malloy
Lizzie had thought it would be appropriate for George to host a ceremonial potlatch to celebrate the return of the remains of Eltatsy to their burial place, and Robert had been very helpful in handling all the local details. It was customary at such an event to distribute gifts to everyone who attended, and George, with advice from Lizzie, had gone all out. In the truck were two hundred Hudson’s Bay Company blankets, two inflatable zodiacs with outboard motors, books for the local library, and five computers for the Hoonah tribal school. There were also crates of oranges, boxes of chocolate, and a number of tins of English tea.
On the ride from the ferry to the longhouse, Lizzie drove George’s rental car, being the one most comfortable with the steering wheel on the left. George sat beside her in the front and Edmund sat behind his father. Lizzie caught his eye in the rear view mirror and smiled. The two had had a chance to spend several hours together during the ferry ride, braving the elements on the open deck at the stern of the ship while their companions remained comfortably inside.
Lizzie was glad to have shared that time with Edmund, standing close enough together to keep each other warm as they leaned against the railing of the ship. She had had a chance to see for herself that he was recovering from the blow of his brother’s suicide.
When everything had been delivered to the longhouse, Robert and Sarah showed their guests to the only hotel in the village. They had a light supper together and then Robert took his daughter home to change for the potlatch. It was a short walk to the longhouse, and the visitors would meet them there in two hours. George asked Lizzie if she would join him for a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant and she agreed happily.
“This is a strange culmination to the project for which I hired you, isn’t it?” he said, after they had ordered their coffee.
Lizzie laughed. “It is indeed,” she said. “You know, George, when I got your letter I was hoping that it would lead to some sort of wonderful adventurous experience, but you have provided thrills beyond all expectations.”
They talked about the process of historical research and she felt obliged to explain that it didn’t always go so quickly.
“Under ordinary circumstances,” she said, “I would have expected it to take several months to lay the groundwork, search through collections, identify relevant documents, etc.” She took a sip of her coffee. “If you had hired me just to find the heart,” she continued, “I probably would have asked for a round-trip ticket to the Holy Land as the first step!”
He smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you for everything that you have done.” They said nothing of Richard.
The waitress approached to refill their coffee cups and George and Lizzie were silent for a few minutes. When they were alone again, he told her that he felt very right about what they were doing here in Hoonah. She could resist no longer; she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the cheek.
“There is one other thing,” George said, leaning behind his chair and pulling out a large, flat package. “This evening many gifts will be exchanged and I want to give the first one to you now.”
They had to stand up to balance the heavy package on a chair between them and Lizzie stripped off the paper.
It was the Rossetti painting.
She felt the tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you George,” she said, kissing him again. “It is so valuable though. Are you sure?”
“Worried about my financial situation?”
Lizzie acknowledged that she was.
“I will get through this,” George said. There was no remorse in his voice. “They can’t kick me out of my house until I’m dead, I can still be buried in the family church. And,” he added, winking at her, “before I go I’m committed to giving away as much stuff as I can to the people I love.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Are there any other paintings you’d like to have? Maybe the Gainsborough?”
The both laughed.
“I have a present for you too,” she said, pulling a big manila envelope from her bag. “It’s my report on Francis Hatton and his collection. I have already anticipated tomorrow’s events in it, and it wraps up the whole story very nicely.”
He thanked her. “Will you send a copy to Thomas Clark, or should I?”
She answered that, with his permission, she would.
“I’ve already arranged for him to come to Hengemont to pick up the Pacific collection,” George continued. “I’m giving it all to the museum.”
Lizzie knew it was the right decision, but hated the thought of it leaving Frank’s cabinet in the library. She found herself unable to speak, but nodded to George that she approved of the decision.
“And part of our arrangement,” he said, patting the envelope she had given him, “is that this report of yours will be the first thing they publish about it.”
Lizzie nodded again. It would be a great career enhancer for her, just as she had always known, only now it didn’t seem quite so important.
George walked back with her to the door of her room before going off to his own room to change for the evening’s festivities. Lizzie set the painting down against the hallway wall and was struggling with the key when Martin opened the door from inside. He returned to where he had been lying propped up on the bed as Lizzie picked up the painting and brought it into the room. She set it up on the desk and waited for him to notice.
“Is that a Rossetti?” he asked, standing up and crossing the room.
His wife watched as he turned on the light and examined the painting.
“It’s a gift from George,” she answered. “And look at the subject.”
“Elizabeth Wakes from the Dream,” he said, reading from the plaque on the frame. He made a whistling sound. “I’ll be damned. If this story doesn’t just get stranger and stranger.”
“She’s one of the Hatton girls.”
“Obviously.”
“Apparently she went and lived with Rossetti in that weird phase after his wife died.”
“Before or after he exhumed her corpse?”
“I think before and after,” Lizzie said, sitting on the bed. “There’s some paperwork on the back if you’re interested in the details.”
“Is she one of the ones who committed suicide?”
“No,” she answered, sitting up. “In a strange way I think that she got into Rossetti’s bizarre cult of death and left her own behind, but at least she lived to a ripe old age.”
Martin came to sit beside her on the bed. “So this thing has really gone on century after century.”
She nodded.
“And do you actually think you have broken this spell or whatever it is?”
Lizzie shrugged. “Who knows?” She reached out to touch his hand. “It’s not like I’m feeling very powerful.”
“You are though,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “Look at what you have made possible here today.”
• • • • •
Lizzie had never been to a potlatch but she had read numerous descriptions and she was filled with excitement as they approached the longhouse. There was a good crowd gathering, many dressed in ceremonial clothing. Sarah came out to greet Lily and show her the dancing robe that her mother had made for the occasion. It was a dark blue blanket with a wide border of red, and in the center was the Eltatsy bear crest appliquéd in red and ornamented with mother-of-pearl buttons.
There was plenty of food, followed by a presentation of traditional Tlingit dances and songs, and then a number of people rose to give speeches. The Eltatsys shared the honor of hosting the festivities with George Hatton, but they were also the honored guests. In addition to Robert, his wife Deborah, and Sarah, there were about two dozen members of the family present. Most, like Robert and Deborah, lived in Juneau or Anchorage during the school year, but came back to
Hoonah to fish during the summer; many of them had made a special trip this weekend to be here for the potlatch. High-ranking guests had come from other Tlingit villages as well, including Haines and Chilkat, and there were also visitors from the Haida village of Masset.
George was clearly nervous when the time came for him to distribute the gifts. He started with two hundred Canadian centennial silver dollar coins, many of which had been made into pendants or brooches. The image on the coin was a totem pole and Lizzie had suggested that they would make good souvenirs of the occasion. The other gifts followed quickly and the guests seemed pleased with the selection George and Lizzie had made.
When there was nothing left on the stage but the two crates, Martin and Edmund opened them and displayed the bear-crest blanket and the burial box, as Robert Eltatsy came forward to receive them from George. It was a very emotional moment for everyone present.
George then asked Edmund to give him another package, which he opened carefully. Lizzie was astonished to see that it contained the bear helmet. George asked Robert if it would be appropriate for him to read the letter written by Francis Hatton to his sister, in which the circumstances of its acquisition were described. Robert nodded and George proceeded, in a soft but clear voice, to read the letter in which Frank Hatton’s fondness for the young chief Eltatsy was so evident. When he finished, he folded up the letter and handed it, along with the helmet, to Robert Eltatsy.
“This was first exchanged between our ancestors seven generations ago,” he said, “and we have treasured it since, but now I would like to return it to you.”
Lizzie wasn’t sure that Robert, or anyone, would be able to speak for several minutes, but Sarah was unable to repress her enthusiasm for the helmet when she saw it.
“That is so cool!” she gasped in a stage whisper to Lily.
The silence broken, Robert and George both laughed. Robert invited his daughter to hold the helmet while he took off his ceremonial headpiece. It was made of cedar bark and feathers, and was fronted by a small stylized bear carving, almost a portrait, with the bear’s empty paws held up on either side of its head. He handed it to George.
“It was an exchange of gifts then,” he said, “and it should be again.” He then took the bear helmet from his daughter and placed it on his head as the crowd cheered.
“Would it be appropriate for me to wear this here?” George asked Robert, holding up the headdress.
Lizzie was astonished that he would even consider it, but Robert Eltatsy was obviously pleased, and helped him to settle it firmly on his head. Another cheer went up from the crowd.
The final gift of the evening was given by Sarah to Lily. It was a button blanket made by her mother. Appliquéd onto it were two red hearts over rippling water made from mother-of-pearl buttons.
• • • • •
Though Lizzie had worked out the rendezvous in Hoonah based largely on the schedules of the participants, it had not escaped her attention that they would be returning Eltatsy to his gravesite on February 14, the anniversary of the death of Captain Cook. Francis Hatton had been at his lowest moment of despair at that point in the voyage, wishing more than anything that he could return Eltatsy to his resting place. It seemed appropriate that they would finally keep his promise on that day. “Numquam Dediscum,” Lizzie thought as she boarded the boat that would take them across Icy Strait.
On one of the Porpoise Islands, a spot chosen by Robert Eltatsy as most appropriate, he and his brother, with help from Martin and Edmund, constructed a grave house from wood they brought with them. Robert invited George to place the burial box inside and the structure was closed with the remaining planks. No one spoke during the whole proceeding. Robert then mounted the blanket on one of the side walls and gestured to Martin to join him at the opposite side. Martin stepped forward and unrolled a mural, painted on sailcloth, which he and Robert nailed securely to the wall of the hut.
Tears rolled down Lizzie’s cheeks as she looked at it; Martin had painted it in secret. It depicted the story of the Eltatsys and the Hattons, with the people standing around her incorporated into it. On the left was the rocky coast of Alaska. From the forest, the Eltatsy bear ancestor emerged to meet his human wife. About them were bears and humans and humans in bear masks and bears in human masks. From the right side came Elizabeth and Jean d’Hautain in medieval garb, looking just as they did in their carved grave image.
Their descendent, Francis Hatton, was shown arriving aboard the ship Resolution, met by a number of canoes, in one of which stood Eltatsy, wearing his bear crest blanket and helmet. Martin had used Robert Eltatsy as the model for his ancestor; Frank Hatton looked like his portrait at Hengemont. In the middle of the mural was not only the meeting of the vessels, but beyond them the two tombs—one bearing the familiar Hatton crest, the other the Tlingit grave house, hung with its Chilkat blanket. From them emerged the descendents.
It was signed with Martin’s characteristic signature, the date, and the inscription “Never Forgotten.”
Lizzie looked around to see that she wasn’t the only one in tears. George Hatton wept silently for a few minutes and then grabbed Martin by the arm and held on. Martin smiled at him and gently supported him with his other hand.
“I couldn’t have done it without Robert, here,” he said. “He provided the design for the blanket and the house, and sent me photographs of his family and this place.”
George turned to Robert. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Robert Eltatsy reached out his hand to George and they shook hands heartily. “Thank you,” Robert said, “for doing the right thing.”
“I’m only sorry it took so long to make things right,” George said apologetically.
Edmund stood next to Lizzie and she leaned into him with an affectionate poke of her elbow. On her coat she was wearing the pin he had given her, and as he saw it he smiled.
They turned from the burial site at the top of the island and began to make their way cautiously down to the boat. “Icy Bay” had not been misnamed and there was no clear path down the rocks. Martin took Lizzie’s hand and Edmund moved back to assist his father and daughter. The Eltatsys remained for several more minutes at the top. Standing at the stern of the boat, Lizzie crossed her arms and concentrated on the nearby shore where the old village of Hoonah had once stood. Bald eagles seemed to be everywhere. Martin touched her back in a gesture that was at once intimate and supportive. When she looked at him his gaze was fixed where hers had been moments before. He turned to her as if sensing her eyes on him and smiled gently. He had, she realized, never been anything but a gentleman.
She thought of Elizabeth Pintard d’Hautain and her great love for her husband John. Had it compared with her own love for Martin? She had asked this question so many times in the last several weeks, and now she felt certain that she knew the answer. The first Elizabeth had been only sixteen when she became a widow. She had known her husband for only a few weeks. They each loved the youthful beauty of their mate and invested in them all the romance of their illusions. Their love had never matured to the point at which the bond had become more than that. John d’Hautain had never really known Elizabeth’s intelligence, patience, or honor. She had barely had time to know them herself when she died, and yet her zeal and commitment had carried her quest through twenty-eight generations of descendents over seven hundred years. It was almost as if, not having enjoyed the fruits of a mature love with her husband, she depended on the solidity of their union in death. Lizzie had to admit it was intensely romantic, but there was no reality in it, and nothing to either emulate or envy.
She looked at the Eltatsy family as they came down the rock. Had their ancestors had the same mission? Lizzie thought their quest had as much to do with honor as with love. In order to live among his ancestors, Eltatsy had to rest among them in a manner carefully prescribed by generations of tradition. Francis Hatton had understood that,
and everyone here today did as well.
Lizzie thought again about where her own mortal remains should lie. She and Martin had talked about it again after they got home and each had agreed to leave it to the other to decide, according to whatever practice would make the survivor most comfortable. A verse from an Irish emigration song came into her head:
“What matter to me where my bones may be buried,
If in peace and contentment I can live my life.”
It had taken her a long time to get to this point, but she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment. Let others worry about burial practices and ghoulish matters. She was going home where she could be with Martin, to talk and laugh and love and argue. For Lizzie, the romantic did not have to be imagined; it could be felt and appreciated as part of her reality.
Martin slipped his hand into hers and guided her onto a seat on the boat, then sat beside her. She put her arm around his waist, and he put his about her shoulders. Their middle-aged bodies settled comfortably against one another.
“I almost forgot,” he whispered, putting his lips against her hair as the boat pulled away from the rocks, “it’s Valentine’s Day.” He reached with his free hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “Here,” he said, “this is for you.”
She opened the envelope and took out a small paper heart; it was the kind that elementary school kids send to each other.
“My heart belongs to you,” it said. On the back Martin had added in his beautiful script: “Literally, to do with as you like.”
Lizzie buried her face in his coat so that her laughter would not disturb the reverie of the others on the boat. Eventually she was sobbing loudly, as much with relief as with regret, and when she looked up, she saw that several people on the boat had joined her, either in tears or laughter.
As the island retreated in the distance, they saw a bear amble out of the forest and down to the beach. It paused, stood up to its full height, and looked at the occupants of the boat before dropping back to all fours and returning to the forest with a lumbering gait. Lizzie looked around at Edmund and George and Lily, and each smiled back at her.