Four Quarters of Light

by Brian Keenan

  But this young man continued to distract me. When he moved in the dancing spiral he moaned with more concentrated abandon, and his guttural chants, which were the first to emerge before being swallowed up in an echoing chorus, seemed to me to have their source in something less human than the circle of bodies in front of me. I looked closely at him every time he passed me, but I never saw any discernible moment of ‘possession’ in him. His face only became animated at those moments when he threw his head back to chant to the sky. There was something quite unearthly yet beautifully moving in the noise that came from him. It was, in every imaginable way, the call of the wild. None of the other dancers seemed driven in the way he was. There had to be something more than spiritual ecstasy there, some powerful driving force not triggered externally by the dance. I did not know what it was, only that the whole dance centred and moved around his fierce energy. These were not the sacred dances we had earlier witnessed, they were invitational and celebratory. They were meant to be enjoyed, and to enrich the sense of community and sharing which were essentials in the Gwich’in culture.

  I was thrilling to the euphoria of it all when Chief Evon approached, asked if I was enjoying myself and began introducing me to a few other villagers. We exchanged cordial words, and the chief even joked about my special relationship with the caribou. I laughed too, feeling less bothered now by my transgression. I did, however, remark that I was really looking forward to a shower and would be attending the dedication ceremony at the washeteria the next day. Chief Evon was happy, said he wanted me to meet one of the younger generation of Gwich’in and called over some of the young dancers. Among them was the young man I had been studying. Instead of introducing them to me he stated that I was a visitor from Ireland who was travelling through Alaska to write a book and that after the ceremony tomorrow they might like to speak with me. They all nodded obligingly before moving off. I asked the chief about the young man. ‘It is no surprise you should be interested,’ he replied. ‘His mother was Irish. Tomorrow you should speak with him. We are very proud of these young Gwich’in. But I must leave you now – and remember, my Irish friend, there is no dancing after four a.m.’ Then he smiled and was gone before I could assure him that I would be fast asleep long before that curfew.

  Before midnight, the platform at the top of the room was cleared and a drum set appeared along with some PA equipment and a few well-worn amplifiers. Dancers quickly removed their buckskin costumes and hovered eagerly around the room. After a brief spell a guitar player took the stage with the drummer and two young fiddle players, and after a few minutes’ tuning they began to play some country and western tunes that everyone seemed to enjoy. It was obvious the young fiddlers were merely a warm-up act as after about half an hour three older men, though still in their mid-twenties, took over and really turned up the tempo.

  At first I was completely thrown by this event. Some moments ago I had been watching native people perform sacred caribou dances, now here I was watching the same Indians playing country and western music! It took some time to recover from the initial shock. I watched the older couples dance intricate two-foot shuffles while others waltzed with unexpected finesse. And as I listened, the incongruity of what I was witnessing diminished. Athabascan ballroom dancing inside the Arctic Circle seemed less absurd and more unique. I should have realized that with so many mixed bloodlines in the Athabascan gene pool – Russian, Irish, Spanish, Scandinavian and French-Canadian – it would have been impossible to hold back cross-cultural influence in their music.

  Fiddle music, I learned from Margaret and her friend, was a long-standing tradition in Alaskan villages. Irish, Orkney Island and French-Canadian fiddle music had arrived with the Hudson Bay Company in the mid-1800s, and a second wave of fiddle music arrived in the 1900s from Appalachia via the Californian gold fields as the miners migrated with their get-rich-quick dreams inspired by the Klondike. Finally, country and western and Cajun music cassettes added their own flavour to this unique fiddle-playing tradition. I was really getting into the swing of this luscious hotch-potch of styles and influences. I considered it would have taken several generations for this grafted music to bury itself so deeply in the native culture. Margaret explained that many native people have a well-honed ear for sound and melody. I knew what she meant. I had experienced the quality of quiet in the bush, and how the slightest sound carries. Natives, too, she insisted, have a great sense of meticulous application, and most players are self-taught.

  As she was explaining these things, I was thinking how the idea of subsistence living was not only about shelter and survival. If it was about creating something useful out of whatever came your way, then obviously that meant music too. When Margaret told me that many of the early instruments, like many things in Alaska, had been ordered through Sears Roebuck catalogues, and then added that at one time the Sears Roebuck business empire had accepted pelts as payment, I had to laugh. An image came into my head of an advertisement in a Sears Roebuck catalogue, circa 1950: ‘One G-string bango, $75, or ten quality beaver skins. Fiddle and bow in case, $120, or three wolf hides. Both items on special offer as presentation set – $165, or two brown bear skins.’

  That night I lay in my tent going over the events of the day while mongrel fiddle music reeled out over the expanding tundra to the accompaniment of youthful laughter and applause.

  Patrick and the Caribou

  Alcohol is absolutely forbidden in native settlements, but the following morning the village had a distinctly hung-over air about it. Although the music did stop around four o’clock, people were too excited to sleep; I could still hear talking and laughter after six. I eventually struggled down to the field kitchen at about half past nine, and relished the steaming coffee that was available. There were a few dozen young villagers there plus members of the various camera crews. Everyone looked dog tired after the previous night’s exertions, though the cameramen were particularly pleased with the shots they had got and an Australian soundman spoke in raptures about the fiddle playing. I walked among them exchanging hellos and chatting about plans. Most were staying in the village for another day, then heading north to get some footage of the caribou migration. I was again assured they had room for me if I was still keen to go. There was little doubt about that.

  As I passed among the growing breakfast crowd I became aware that I was being watched. The young man I had witnessed dancing with such intensity was hovering about, occasionally speaking to his peers but more often on his own. At first I thought it was my imagination – another hangover from my fascination with the aggressive, trance-like quality of his dancing. So for a few minutes I dissuaded myself that this young man was really watching me. But as I moved from one acquaintance to another, and when I walked over to the community hall and back, there he was, either sitting not far off from where I was speaking or watching me from a distance. I decided to forget the matter entirely, and after warming myself at the great log fire I headed back to my tent for a change of clothes to take to the washeteria.

  I must have been some twenty minutes or so sorting things in my tent, checking to see that my sleeping bag was still dry and lighting some incense before emerging and setting off through the village. My young stalker was waiting for me behind the pile of caribou antlers. He said nothing when I looked in his direction, turning his face from me as if he had other concerns to deal with. But during the few minutes’ walk to the shower he was never far behind, and when I emerged in my fresh attire, there he was again. I had to admit I was now becoming a little disturbed by this. After all, I had no idea what was on his mind. Had he noticed me watching him with such interest? Had this somehow offended him? I could hardly go off to Chief Evon or one of the elders with this problem.

  Instinctively I took the bull by the horns and walked directly over to him. I stopped in front of him and smiled. ‘Did you enjoy the music last night’ I asked nonchalantly, drying my hair.

  He was startled neither by my action nor by the question.
‘Yes’ he replied, ‘I liked the music.’ There was not the slightest hint of animation or interest in his face.

  ‘It was much too late for me – an old man needs his sleep,’ I continued, trying to extend the atmosphere of ease between us. ‘Are you going back to the village?’ I added invitingly before moving off. Without answering, he walked alongside me. ‘Chief Evon introduced me to so many people last night, but I remember that you’re Patrick.’ (Patrick is the pseudonym I have given the young man as I am quite sure he would not be happy to have his real name used. The native mind has a thing about names. A name tells of who you are. It locates you in your family, in your tribe. Usually it is chosen in compliance with certain codes and spiritual beliefs. Respect a man’s name and you respect the man. So I have chosen out of deep respect to call him Patrick.)

  For a few minutes we walked in silence with me busily pretending to dry my hair while hoping that Patrick would open up rather than simply answer the innocuous questions I was putting to him. It was not to be. When I queried him about his costume, he told me that it had been his father’s; when I asked him if his mother had sewn the beadwork, he abruptly answered, ‘No.’ But it was the way the answer came that struck me – as if he was trying to choke back something. The word was almost inaudible, and it fell out of his mouth like a stone. I needed to change the subject quickly or else the silence between us would crush us.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen, almost twenty,’ he replied, then put the question back to me.

  ‘Oh, much, much older than that,’ I told him, smiling openly at his enquiry.

  ‘Yes, that is what I thought,’ he commented.

  I laughed. ‘But not old enough to be an elder, I hope, Patrick?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he answered enigmatically, but this time I was sure there was some devilment and a vague hint of a smile behind the word.

  We were by now almost back in the centre of the village and more people were thronging around the food tables.

  ‘What part of Ireland was your mother from?’ I asked, assuming from the earlier reference to her that she had died.

  ‘I do not know,’ he said coldly, and then, with some passion that I knew veiled other emotions, he announced, ‘She has gone,’ and abruptly walked off.

  I was totally confused by Patrick’s mercurial behaviour. Obviously he had sought me out for whatever reason, yet now he had stormed off for no reason I could understand. I wondered if there was any point trying with him.

  Later, I made my way back to the washeteria for the dedication of alternative energy, a ceremony that had been organized by the young Gwich’in adults as a statement of how they saw the future of the wilderness. To a community that lived by subsisting, alternative energy produced by solar and wind power was an obvious extension of their normal way of life. As one villager explained, ‘Nature will give you what you require, but you have to work with it. We do not need to gouge open the earth and tear it apart for a few barrels of oil. Look out there, what do you see?’ Before I could answer he continued, ‘Silence and beauty, a world at peace with itself. Now close your eyes and look again.’ I did as he asked and held my eyes shut as he spoke. ‘Now you see roads and trucks, airfields and oil platforms, storage depots and processing plants, turbines and engines, and people everywhere. And what do you hear? Noise, noise everywhere. It is the earth screaming, and it is my people dying in their hearts. If we stand by and allow this thing to happen we will be killing our own souls.’

  I had opened my eyes as the man was speaking. He wasn’t looking at me as the words spilled from him, he was looking out across the land. There was a quite stoic composure on his face, though to me his despair was Job-like. All of us need these wilderness places in order to re-harmonize the soul, cleanse the spirit and detox all the clutter and contagion we take into ourselves without knowing. As I stood beside this man and felt his prayer pass out over the land, I knew his words were not romantic rhetoric or sentimental indulgence, they were a war cry and a warning. And they were coming at me off the land itself.

  I could only pat my friend on the shoulder in an act of sympathy and solidarity. He turned to me with the same stoic stillness in his face and nodded. Then we both walked quietly to where the dedication ceremony was to take place.

  It was warm and bright, and most of the village was in attendance. The old chief was there, having been helped into a chair, and Evon Peter gave a short speech about the importance of alternative energy as a way forward for the Gwich’in. This was why he particularly wanted the young adults of the tribe to dedicate the installation. I looked at the dozen or so young people gathered in front of the building. All of them stood behind a large red banner with a yellow motif outlining the silhouette of a male caribou, which formed the backdrop to a raised, clenched fist. I was stunned by the militancy of it but could perfectly understand the sentiment behind it.

  Chief Evon introduced the group by name, adding personal details about each of them, but he reserved special praise for my friend Patrick whom he described as a true Gwich’in who honoured the ideals and lived the life better and more fully than anyone in the village. Such was his standing that Evon good-humouredly hinted that Patrick might one day be chief. True to form, Patrick stood motionless and unmoved, but I was convinced he was intimidated, not so much by the praise heaped upon him as by the announcement that some of the Gwich’in youth would give short speeches about their lives and why being Gwich’in was important to them. There would not be enough time to hear them all speak at this ceremony but Evon promised that the rest would continue back at the village – except Patrick, whom he required for some other duties.

  Only the first few of these family honour speeches had been delivered when thunder rolled over us and a sudden downpour forced us back into the hall sooner than expected. The impromptu nature of the storm and the consequent rescheduling of the event allowed me a little time with Chief Evon. I casually asked him what had happened to Patrick’s Irish mother. He informed me that he understood she had lived in Arctic Village only for a short time and had left when Patrick was a very young baby. His father, with the support of the tribe, brought him up alone. The chief then became confessional as he continued. ‘To the Gwich’in this was a very sad thing to have happened. The family and the community are of central importance. For a mother to leave her child would be most unusual. She might leave her husband, particularly if he was a poor provider. She might take the child and live somewhere else in or near the village. But to leave and never return like she was dead or is a ghost! This is not the Gwich’in way. Such things do not happen.’ He looked at me. ‘What I am saying is that such things do not happen within the villages. But often, when families leave to live in the cities they have many problems and they break up. In the village environment a mother would never desert her young child. She would share her troubles with the tribe and they would do what they could to help. The Gwich’in are one family.’ He paused again. ‘I must go now.’

  I thought this over for some moments and it began to dawn on me why Patrick would not make the honour speech like the others, why he was such a fine hunter, and perhaps why he had chosen to stalk me. I decided there and then to reverse the situation and hunt him down.

  I found him outside the community hall. He was wearing a sleeveless jacket over a white T-shirt with the same caribou-andfist symbol emblazoned on it; the back of the jacket had the word ‘security’ printed in bold letters. A few of the other older teenagers wore similar jackets, though I could not understand why a security team was required. Patrick was gently shooing some of the smaller children off the steps that led up to the hall so as to allow the ceremony to continue indoors.

  ‘I have two small boys about their age,’ I said, as if our conversation that morning had not happened.

  ‘You left them in Ireland?’ he asked, accepting my casual remark.

  I explained that I had brought them to Alaska with me but that I had left them in Anchorage with their mot
her. He nodded at this, then immediately changed the subject, asking me lots of questions about Ireland – what it looked like, how many people lived there and what type of animals we hunted. I answered him as best I could without going into too many complicated details, although he did seem really surprised when I said it was a large island though smaller than the Yukon flats. I had no proper answer for Ireland’s shortage of wild animals, which perplexed him.

  ‘What will you teach your sons to become?’ he asked.

  This, I thought, was going to be difficult to answer. The Gwich’in learned everything in a family context; school was a separate kind of learning for them. I tried to explain that my children would choose their own course in life when they were old enough. But it did not convince him. He sat silently thinking about this.

  ‘Have you ever been to Anchorage or Fairbanks?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Only to Venetie a few times.’ He explained that his father had been to the city and to America but that he would never go to these places. He would stay here always! Then he asked me how long I would stay and why I had come. He hardly seemed to take in the answers before asking me more questions about Ireland, then about my wife, and about my own parents and grandparents. I laughed to myself. I had come to hunt him down and here I was answering questions as if he was the author researching a book.