by Eowyn Ivey
I asked how he arrived here.
He knew my words because he responded without Samuelson’s translation, but he spoke in a native tongue I could not make out.
— He says the same as us. He walked.
How did he outpace us?
— He doesn’t carry a pack full of metal & tools. Nightfall doesn’t stop him. He follows game trails, because the animals know the easiest way.
It unnerved me to imagine the Old Man creeping past us in the dark of the canyon while we slept.
Why does he follows us this way?
— He says you are wrong. We follow him.
The Old Man nodded towards the forest.
— He wants the girl to come out of hiding so she can eat something.
I called to Nat’aaggi, then whistled for Boyo. The dog ran into the camp first, the woman followed more cautiously.
The Old Man threw a leg bone to the dog, then held up a piece of roasted meat to the woman. She did not move towards it.
— It’s all right, Tillman said. — It’s just tebay. Tebay.
She knew what kind of meat it was. Something else made her distrustful.
Now we are all well fed, even the dog with its bone by the fire. The men have taken out their sleeping bags, retreated under nearby spruce boughs that will keep off rain & snow.
As grateful as I am for the Old Man’s apparent generosity, still I question his intentions. I take first watch. As I write here in this journal, he eyes me from under his black hat.
An oddity, to be sure. Two combs so similar that I cannot deny they are exact replicas of each other. How would the Old Man come in possession of it? Why offer it to me in trade?
The scoundrel crept through the dark, sat cross-legged beside me in the firelight , leaned into me as if we were old comrades. By the firelight, he reached inside his coat for a small sack made of a peculiar, blackish hide. As he opened it, I recognized its form — the sack was sewn from the dried & leathery webbed foot of a large waterfowl, with the toe joints & black nails still intact. He opened the sack, turned away slightly as if shielding a secret. He first pulled out an enamel button, then a few coins, the tooth of some beast, an amber agate, until he came up with what he sought. He closed his hand around it, reached towards the dull glow of the campfire, then, like a conjuror, revealed the prize. A silver hair comb. I took it from him. The same size, shape, the same fern frond engravings. If it weren’t for the missing teeth, the tarnish & gouging as if it had been left out in the weather for many seasons, I could almost swear it is Sophie’s.
I gave it back. What use could I have for it?
— He wants to trade you for chocolate, Samuelson said from beneath a tree. I had thought him asleep, his fur cap pulled down over his eyes.
I said there is no chocolate left.
— He says Tillman still has some in his pack.
In its ruined state, what would I want with the comb? Tillman is annoyed to give up his last ration of chocolate — he saved it to share with us in desperate times. Though I think he is most angry that the Old Man had snooped in his pack.
I cannot think why I agreed to the trade. Only that it bothered me, letting the mischief-maker keep the comb in his shaman’s pouch.
It’s not only chocolate he is after. The Old Man would not leave Nat’aaggi be — he ran his fingers down her hair, whispered in her ear, stroked the otter fur she wears across her shoulders. She did her best to ignore him.
— Why does he pester her so? Tillman asked.
Samuelson says the Old Man is a lecher.
— From what I hear tell, he’s got wives scattered thither & yon. Seems he’d like another, at least for tonight.
Tillman moved to box the Old Man. I advised him to let the girl settle her own affairs.
— Nattie doesn’t want anything to do with him, he said.
— You’re so sure of a woman’s heart. Now there’s territory I have never been able to navigate, Samuelson said.
May 6
Tillman was correct. During the night, Nat’aaggi remained near the campfire without sleeping — she no more trusts the Old Man than any of us. He whispered at her, poked at her. Though I did not know the words, I could guess their meaning. Eventually, his wooing efforts frustrated, he tried to manhandle her away from the fire & into the darkness. This was too much. I stood to intervene, but Nat’aaggi had already wrestled free. She would not have it. She drew her blade.
That’s more than enough, I advised the Old Man.
He laughed, said something. I asked him to repeat himself in English, now that I am certain he knows our language. He refused. I asked again with more force.
— For Christ’s sake, can’t a man get any shut-eye around here, Samuelson grumbled. — He says he will never get his fill.
The Old Man gave a last yank at Nat’aaggi’s hair, then retreated before I could respond.
This morning he is gone. He did not kidnap Nat’aaggi in the night, but he did take the last of the tebay meat with him. Tillman, who had the early morning watch, was the only one to notice him slip away before dawn. He says the Old Man left without fanfare, walked from the campfire presumably to relieve himself but did not return. Tillman did not notice the meat gone until daylight.
This late morning we reached what I believe is the Trail River. We split into two parties. Nat’aaggi, Samuelson, & Boyd will remain behind to hunt the nearby peaks for tebay. Amongst us, they have best odds at getting meat. The men & I go east up the river in search of the village & its tyone. Tillman says he has learned enough of the Midnoosky tongue to make do as translator.
I have ordered Pruitt to leave behind camera, tripod, & all but the most necessary of instruments. We have also cached a small amount of tea, lard, & other provisions for when we return. We set out with a few cups of flour & the unappetizing salmon we traded from the Indians. From the Indians’ vague direction, we believe the village is about 10 miles upriver, well before the river branches into two forks. The Old Man denied the village exists at all, though I give him no credence.
If their hunt is successful, or if they do not hear from us for more than a week, Samuelson says they will seek us out on the Trail River. If we do not find each other before, we will meet here at the juncture of the two rivers within the month.
Ice is rapidly disappearing. Small patches of green grass emerge along the riverbank.
May 7
No sign of the village yet. Travel difficult, as the valley is snarled with alder, deadfall trees. We are hungry. Soles fall from our rotting boots. We try to mend them with strips of hide, without success.
May 8
All of us quite ill. Out of desperation, ate the salmon yesterday afternoon. Quickly doubled us over with cramps, vomiting. Pruitt so weak, we must at times support him as he walks.
A hardship to travel on, but the village is our best hope.
Part Three
Alaska Indian Infant Sling.
Allen Forrester Collection.
Wolverine River Indians, Circa 1885.
Strap of caribou hide, 44 inches long by 6 inches wide, with sinew threading, decorated with a pattern of flattened porcupine quills. Quills dyed with ochre. Used to secure infant to mother’s back.
Perkins Island, Alaska
9 November, 1794
Your Grace, Dmitry,
Most Merciful Archbishop and Father.
Blessed be the Father of compassion, God Almighty, who through Divine Providence protects us from our own weaknesses and failings.
I, humble servant, have the honor of reporting that we have conducted 100 baptisms in the past seven days. Since our arrival last autumn, we have welcomed nearly 5,000 natives to the Christian faith. It is still difficult to know how much they understand about their duties before God, but they come in zeal and so we baptize them and instruct them as best we can.
Although their nature is rough, wild, and libidinous, the
se natives are entirely capable of Redemption. They seem to come naturally to the concept of Christian Charity. Without hesitation they will share whatever food or shelter in their possession, and miserliness is considered greatest amongst sins. They are also as modest in their dress as any good Russian. The women wear simple dresses of bird skins. In cooler weather, they dress in the furs of otter and beaver.
As they come to understand what the Creator requires of them, we believe they will continue to abandon their shameful dances, polygamy, and worship of shamans.
Yet there are those who do not embrace the truth. Even as the piety of the people increases in the eyes of the Creator, so still is there superstition and partnership with Evil.
There is a sorcerer among them who retains the people’s reverence even as they profess faith in God. This aged man mocks civilization by wearing along with his shaman’s costume some kind of gentleman’s hat that he says he obtained in trade with Shelikhov’s men.
This sorcerer is doing much to disrupt our endeavor. He claims to have caused the illness and fever in Father Pavel, and more troublesome, the people believe it is so. He benefits from coincidence. Two weeks ago he claimed that a certain native woman with a black tumor would die before the day ended. Her family begged him to help, but he said he would not. She died at sundown.
Some of the elder natives say that in years past this sorcerer has caused both the sun and moon to disappear, and that his leg is lame because he was shot with an arrow as he flew from tree to tree. They believe he can give and take away the breath of life. He tells them where best they can hunt their animals, and in times of starvation, they say he has called the wild creatures within reach of their spears. They also say he correctly predicted our arrival at Perkins Island.
Before a crowd of devoted Christian natives, I called out this man. I explained that it is only through God that his people may seek Truth and Life after death, that the ways of the Devil can result only in eternal suffering. After listening to my sermon, he repented and firmly promised to halt his practices.
At 5 o’clock that evening, I served Vespers and Matins. At 9 o’clock, we were informed that the sorcerer was atop the log cupola of our modest chapel. A group of native men stood outside and said they had watched the sorcerer fly to his location. It was dark and difficult to see, but I am horrified to report that indeed I saw a black shape atop our blessed chapel.
To please us, the people say they no longer heed this sorcerer. However, we know they continue to look to him for guidance, healing, and Dark Arts.
Eminent Master, I pray that our Creator’s benevolence will flow through your heart and bless me with words of comfort, knowledge, and instruction. In your fatherly kindness, inform us as to how best we can continue to bring the Wisdom and the Word of God to this wild land. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.
Your humble and devoted servant,
Hierodeacon Joseph
Dear Mr. Forrester,
I had to share this letter with you. I tracked it down in a book about the Orthodox Church’s presence in Alaska, and it includes firsthand narratives — diaries and letters translated from Russian — of missionaries who came to Alaska in the 1700s. I read the book several years ago, and thought of it as I was going through your papers. I remembered that there was a reference to Perkins Island.
I have to say, it gave me chills when I read it this time. Nearly a hundred years before the Colonel. Weird.
I’m making good progress on transcribing the diaries, even though I’ve been able to spare only a few hours here and there. I was out last week. The caribou were just north of Alpine, so I went hunting with our neighbors. But now I’m back, and our freezer is full, so I don’t have any plans to be gone for a while. The rest of the winter here at the museum it should be quiet with the tourists gone, so I’ll be able to put more time into transcribing. I’ve resisted bringing it home to work on in the evenings, because Isaac hates it when I spread my papers all over the house. I guess I’m a bit like your sister in that way. And, by the way, I am a big fan of yellow stickies, too.
Since you mentioned your curiosity about Alaska, I’ll try to give you a sense of “downtown” Alpine. It’s a strip of highway that parallels the Wolverine River. There’s a church, a gas station, our museum (which is an old log church that has been renovated), the public library, the junkyard, the post office (which also doubles as a convenience store), and two bars. The main social events are the wakes at one of the bars when one of the old-timers passes away and the flu shot clinics at the library each fall.
There’s really not much to it, but somehow I missed it when I was away at college in Seattle. It was just small things — being able to light a campfire in my own backyard and stand around it with friends and neighbors. The cold air off the glacier. Ice skating on the lake in the dark of winter. The northern lights. The mountains. Knowing everyone at the post office. There is the feeling here that civilization is still just a speck, and it makes me feel small in a good way. Seattle made me feel small in a bad way, if that makes any sense.
I’ve been back home for about five years. It makes my mom happy. She likes to cook dinner for us. We had caribou roast and mashed potatoes last night.
By the way, please call me Josh. Whenever I see “Mr. Sloan,” I think I’ve opened someone else’s mail by accident.
All best,
Josh
Dear Josh,
Thanks for taking the time to describe Alpine for me. I’ve often thought about the boom that came to that area after the Colonel’s expedition and the changes it must have brought. I always had it in my mind that Alpine must be a good-sized town. Is there any mining going on around there anymore?
Good on you, getting your meat in for the winter. I’d be curious to taste caribou. I did a fair amount of deer and elk hunting when my knees were still up to it, but it’s a disappearing way of life I’m afraid. Most of these namby-pambies down here wouldn’t know how to wring a rooster’s neck if their lives depended on it. Doesn’t matter which side of the fence you look, you can’t squeeze a drop of common sense out of the whole bunch. I’ve canceled my subscriptions to most of the magazines, and I can’t stand to watch television anymore. I’m starting to think it’s just as well that I won’t be around much longer. I don’t have much desire to see where these idiots take us.
You’ll find a check enclosed, just a small donation to help with the work you’re doing there. I wasn’t thinking when I sent you everything that in order to preserve it and make use of it, it would require some effort on your end. I only wanted to find a good home for it all. I hope the money helps some, and have no qualms about taking it.
Last of all, let me say, your letters are the most interesting correspondence I’ve received in some time. It is “weird” indeed that it seems the Colonel’s nemesis made an appearance 100 years prior. Maybe it’s coincidence — two Alaskan natives in history with similar peculiarities. Or maybe one was mimicking the other. But I suspect it might not be as simple as all that. As I’ve said, those papers have long caused me to question how I understand the world. Now with you going through the papers, and sharing your own background and knowledge with me, I’ve got even more to think about
I won’t lie. I’ve had some lonely years since I retired from the highway department. I used to go down to the cafe some days to catch up with the guys I used to work with, but they mostly want to gripe about how the new hires don’t know how to plow the roads, or tell me about their grandkids or their golf scores, which is all fine and good but not of much interest to me.
When I think on the Colonel and my great-aunt, I can’t help but wonder what I could have been doing all these years. My life hasn’t amounted to a whole hell of a lot. It’s not a very uplifting thought to sit alone with all day.
But then one of your letters comes along, and I’ve got something interesting to put my mind to. I used to check the mail every week or so, because it was nothing but bills, catalogs, and
advertisements. Foolish as it sounds, I go out every day now, and sometimes as soon I see the mail carrier pull up to the box. Yesterday, darned if she didn’t say, “Any more letters from Alaska?”
Sincerely,
Walt
Foetal Pulsation — By far the most important of all the signs of pregnancy, is that which is associated with the name of Mayor, of Geneva, who was the first to discover that the heart of the foetus could be heard beating through the abdominal and uterine walls. . . . These pulsations are much more frequent than those of the mother and are, like them, distinctly double.
— From A System of Midwifery Including the Diseases of
Pregnancy and the Puerperal State, William Leishman, 1873
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
Trail River
The strange baby will not stop its cries. We wander through the forest but find no sign of a village. For many hours we were lost in thick brush, could not find our way back to the river.
It will not leave my mind. That rooty flesh, that umbilicus string of hideous origins. Clear fluid bubbling up from the ground. Clotted blood & moss one and the same. Can it be true? At times I no longer know — am I awake or dreaming?
Maybe we should leave the infant where it was found, like an orphaned fawn. Yet it would starve, freeze, suffer greatly. This creature has no mother to come for it. — Kill it, Pruitt said. — What difference is it?
He’d seen it himself, he raved. White babies dead by wasting disease. Indian babies slaughtered like calves by white men. He once watched a half-dead Sioux woman give birth in mountain snow, only to be forced by his fellow soldiers to . . . I shouted at him to stop. He has a blackness about him that could sink a man.
Tillman carries the infant. In his coat, swaddled against his chest. He would not leave it, said he’d sooner kill a weasel like Pruitt than an innocent child, weirdly born as this one is.