by Thomas Hopp
Nearing my building, I paused at the Ortman Gallery to look over the Makah harpoon again. It seemed a stark symbol of danger, death, and a past that refused to surrender to the present. I moved on, but my eyes lingered on the harpoon until I stumbled over something in my path. I took several steps back and was horrified to see I had trodden over the outstretched legs of the native sculptor. I blurted an apology - but stopped in mid-sentence. The man was unconscious. He sat upright only because he was propped against the dumpster. The reek of whiskey from him was stronger and his grimy right hand lay across his lap, palm up, as if he had been holding it out for spare change. He moaned feebly but hardly stirred in response to my trampling. Deaf to my hastily spoken regrets, he tilted his head with one eye half-open, and murmured something unintelligible. Then his chin slumped and he lost consciousness again.
Perplexed and feeling guilty, I looked him over more carefully than the day before. He looked and smelled completely ruined, a pitiable but not-unfamiliar sight in the Pioneer Square district, where the downtrodden of Seattle congregate. His long straight black hair was braided on each side in Indian fashion. Under the filth on his cheeks, his complexion was a naturally dark tan. Although he seemed to be in his early twenties, his cheeks were puffy and purple-tinted and his eyes were nearly swollen shut from the toxic effects of alcohol. I knew he was by no means the first native to come to no good on skid row, but my experiences at Neah Bay had increased my awareness of the problems that brought him this low. I felt guilty enough to decide not to pass him by. As I puzzled over what do with him, I noticed two objects beside him on the wet alley cobbles. One was his jackknife with its long blade open. The other was the serpent carving, lying upside down. On its flat back was an inscription made with a few small cuts:
John Steel - Makah Tribe
My eyes widened. I had guessed where the man was from by the logo on his jacket, but I hadn’t guessed this. “John Steel!” I gasped.
He stirred and looked at me dimly. “Yeah?”
“Are you related to Gordon and Tleena Steel?”
“Maybe,” he mumbled. “What’s it to you?”
Despite the puffiness of alcohol and exposure to the elements, I could now see the family resemblance in his face. I stood a moment in shocked silence, trying to fathom the coincidence and then wondering if it was a coincidence at all. Sometimes I feel mysterious forces propel my life, and this was one of those times. Precisely when I was deeply concerned about events at Neah Bay, fate had sent a man related not only to the cantankerous old shaman, but to his beautiful daughter as well. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee or some food?” I asked.
He looked up at me dizzily and then shrugged and gave me a faint smile. “Why not?”
Fumblingly, he folded his jackknife and tucked it into a pants pocket. Then he picked up his sculpture and stood unsteadily. Seeing he might have trouble walking, I grabbed an elbow and helped him stay upright and moving in the direction of Cafe Perugia, which fortunately was just around the corner. I led him inside, passing genteel patrons sitting at small tables that looked out tall windows at the art galleries of Occidental Mall. I steered him to the counter, where the barista and register clerk looked him over with disdain. The clerk said, “I’m sorry, but we don’t usually serve - “
“You usually serve me, don’t you?” I said. “I’m a regular customer.”
She nodded her head yes. I was as familiar to her as she was to me.
“This is a buddy of mine who’s a little messed up. Just give him a while to pull himself together. Then we’ll go.”
“Okay,” she said in a tone that implied it wasn’t. I ordered a triple tall Americano, black, for John and a double espresso for myself. And a couple of grilled ham-and-cheese croissants. We sat at a little round table and John straightened up considerably as he ate and sipped his coffee, although his shabby looks still attracted disapproving glances from other patrons. His eyes gradually cleared and focused on me.
“I met your father and sister a couple days ago,” I said. “Tleena’s children danced at the elder center.”
“That’s my sister,” he murmured with a half smile. “She’s the white sheep of the family. I’m the black one. When’d you meet my old man?”
“Same time, different circumstances. He wasn’t…too pleasant.”
John stopped chewing and smiled at me with his cheeks full like a chipmunk. “Not too pleasant,” he said past his mouthful. “That’s my father.” Then his expression dimmed and he looked down at the floor. He swallowed hard. It seemed like his appetite was gone.
“Something wrong between you and him?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. Then he gazed at his arms and legs as if seeing himself for the first time in a long time. He turned his left hand over, inspecting the grime on it. “I screwed up again.”
“How?”
“Lost the money.”
“What money?”
“To buy the harpoon.”
“The one in the Ortman Gallery?”
“Yeah.”
“You lost twenty-five hundred dollars? How?”
“Drinkin’” he said. “What else? It’s the Indian’s curse. On the rez, booze is illegal. Here, it’s everywhere. Seems like everybody I meet here is a drunk. I ran into a high school chum from Neah Bay. A guy named Dag Bukwatch. He got me drunk. I was staying at Aunt Edna’s house in West Seattle. Second time I came home drunk she told me she didn’t allow no drunken Injuns in her place. So I took off. After that…I don’t remember. Seattle just ain’t no place for klitsukhads.”
“For what?”
“For Indians. At least not this Indian.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I remember a lotta booze,” he said with a far away look. “And I remember smokin’ crystal meth in an alley with Dag Bukwatch. He makes it at his place in the woods back on the rez, and then he brings it to Seattle to sell. I smoked a lotta rock with him and I drank a lotta booze. One day I woke up in that alley and my good old buddy Dag was gone. So was my money.”
“All twenty-five hundred dollars?”
“I only had twenty-two hundred. We took up a collection at the elder center. Everyone chipped in some of their savings. I was given the task of buying the harpoon and bringing it home where it belongs.” He cupped his face in a grimy hand and blinked back tears. “I really screwed up this time!” He sobbed once, and then paused to collect himself.
“My father says it’s got spirit power. Folks at the gallery think it’s just artwork, but we know better. It belonged to our family. One of my ancestors made it. That’s why the elders chose me to come and get it. I offered the twenty-two hundred dollars, but the guy said he wouldn’t take no less than twenty-five hundred. I tried to bargain him down but he wouldn’t budge.” John pointed at his sculpture. “I said I’d make up the difference by carving some of these for him. He said okay, so I carved two, but he said he wanted four. When I was working on the third, that’s when Dag came around and got me drunk and stoned. Now I don’t even have the money I came here with. My old man’s gonna kill me.”
“I’m sorry - ” I began, but Steel went on without pause.
“I suppose it don’t really matter. I’m already a lost soul to my father.”
“A lost soul,” I repeated. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, I failed my vision quest.”
“This trip to Seattle is a vision quest?”
“No, man.” He looked at me as if remembering I wasn’t a native. “I mean my real vision quest. The time when I was supposed to find my spirit guide. This quest to Seattle was supposed to make up for it.”
“What do you mean by a spirit guide?”
“In the old days, every Makah had a spirit animal that gave him power to do what he had to do in life. Came to him in a vision.”
“How did you fail your vision quest?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“A couple years
ago, I had some trouble with the law. Drunk driving. My father said it was time I got the help of a spirit guide. He told me, ‘Go to Serpent’s Cave. Stay inside four days. No food, no water, no bed. Then your spirit guide will come.’ ‘
“Serpent’s Cave? Where is that?”
“It’s under the cliffs at the head of Spirit Cove where my father’s longhouse is. You can only get inside by wading in at the lowest tide on the new moon. Then the tide comes in and the breakers come right up to the highest ledge. They wash at your feet. You’re trapped right up under the cave ceiling on that ledge. They say if your spirit’s not purified before you go in there, a really big wave will come and drown you. Your fate’s in the hands of the two-headed serpent.” He held up his sculpture. “That cave’s his home. The waves wash in and the waves wash out, going two directions just like the serpent. If your heart isn’t pure, then in comes a big wave and you’re dead.
“My spirit wasn’t clean. I had a flask of whiskey with me. Second day I was in there, big waves started coming in at high tide. I had a little driftwood fire but it got dowsed and I got soaked. I spent that night freezing cold. I sang every magic song my old man taught me but no vision ever came. So when low tide came the next morning, I decided I couldn’t take it. I waded out and I went home. My father seen me coming back after only three days and he said I wasn’t fit to be a man and maybe I never would be. He said a man can’t be afraid of death. But I was.”
“So you’re still without a spirit guide?”
“Yeah. Lots of Makahs think having a spirit guide is evil. Un-Christian. They say spirit guides are the work of the devil.”
“If that’s what you think, then why look for a spirit guide?”
“My father says the old spirits aren’t evil. They’re angels sent to help us. Maybe some are demons but most are angels. He says now I’ve got one last chance - come here and get the harpoon. If I do it, then I proved I’m a man because I brought back something important for my family. If I fail, then I ain’t worth a damn and let the demons have me.” He choked on the words briefly but went on. “Now the dreams won’t stop.”
“Dreams?”
“Of this guy.” He picked up the carving and held it out toward me as if making an introduction. “Quykatsayak, the two-headed serpent.”
I admired the skill displayed in Steel’s carving. The two heads meeting at the top of the design seemed alive. The reptilian, staring eyes, the bared fangs, and the jutting tongues almost appeared to move.
Steel said, “He speaks to me out of both mouths. Says two different things at the same time. It’s hard to understand. In my dreams, he keeps coming at me and coming at me.” Steel’s eyes stared vacantly like he was remembering something horrific.
“How big is this snake supposed to be?” I asked.
He held up the sculpture. “Sometimes this size. Other times he’s as big as a house. He wants to kill me because I lost the money. It makes me crazy!” Steel raised his voice with this last statement, causing other patrons to look at him askance or exchange disdainful looks with the girls at the counter.
“Maybe we’d better finish this conversation somewhere else,” I suggested.
We left the coffee shop and went up the stairs to my office. Steel’s gait had gone from shambling to almost respectable. After climbing the four flights of stairs to my garret, he seemed to have recovered most of his sensibilities. I unlocked the old glass and hunter-green painted door and motioned him to sit in the worn overstuffed chair in the corner. He looked around my cramped work space and nodded approvingly. “Nice place. You got a view.”
“Such as it is,” I said, glancing out the dingy, pigeon-spotted windows overlooking the dirty streets of Pioneer Square.
“Better’n I got.” He laughed and then looked around at the red brick walls. “You got your degrees on the wall. UW writing school. I’d like to go to the U someday. You got a clock on the wall, computer, nice big desk - a desk like my sister has at school.”
“Your sister - ” I interrupted his cataloging of my possessions without knowing what I would say. “She’s, uh…”
“Yeah?” he said with a hint of protectiveness.
“Well, she’s very nice.”
He studied my face for a moment and then nodded. “Like I said. She’s the white sheep. The good one.”
I was about to say she had made more than a nice impression on me, but Steel spoke first. “What do you write about?”
“I’m working on a story about Neah Bay. The body in the Spanish crypt.”
He looked at me blankly.
I asked, “Haven’t you heard about the body they dug up?”
“I been drunk a while. I guess I missed it.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never seen what’s carved on the coffin?”
He shook his head no. I pointed at his two-headed serpent carving sitting on his lap. “It has serpents just like that on all four sides. I thought maybe the coffin had inspired your carving.”
He shrugged. “Nope.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I went there with Dr. McKean of Immune Corporation - “
“ImCo,” said Steel. “I know where that is. They got three dumpsters out back. One’s always got food from their lunch room.”
I hid my disgust. “McKean’s doing DNA tests on the skeleton to see if it’s Makah or Spanish.”
“Hmm,” Steel mumbled, as if the concept meant nothing to him. He stared at the worn wooden floor and my old Persian rug for a while, deep in thought.
I said, “What can I do to help you, John?”
An ironic smile twisted his stubble-ringed mouth. “Got twenty-five hundred bucks, plus tax?”
“Sorry,” I replied, gesturing at the tiny office around us. “Do I look like a rich man?”
Steel looked out the window. “It’s gonna be dark soon. I could use a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ve got a car not far from here,” I said. “I could drive you to your aunt’s house.”
He shook his head. “She said keep away until I straighten up. I’m still half-stoned.”
“Where to, then?”
“I’ve got a place to stay that’s not too far from here.”
I locked my office and followed Steel down the steps to the street. He started off in a still-staggering walk and I accompanied him, steadying him by an elbow. We went about ten blocks through the International District and on to a place where the I-5 freeway loomed overhead and the roar of traffic filled the air. Leading me down a dismal, deserted, deadend street lined with old warehouse buildings, he stopped beside a cyclone fence.
I looked around dubiously. “Where’s your place?”
“Up there.” He pointed to where the cyclone fence was slashed open. Beyond it, I saw no dwelling of any kind - just a dirt bank leading up under the freeway.
“It’s all right, man,” Steel said, countering my unspoken disapproval. “There’s an old Indian guy up there. He’s got a tent made out of a blue tarp. Ain’t too ritzy but it’s home for now. The guy’s a Tlingit. He’s pretty good to me. Lets me use a spare sleeping bag and some of his pots and pans and his little stove. I’ll be all right.” He turned and ducked through the gap in the fence.
“Wait!” I said. “Come back and see me tomorrow. I’ve got more questions. Here’s my business card in case you forget the address. And here, let me give you something to get by on.” I took out my wallet and found four twenties inside. I gave all four to him and he stashed them in a shirt pocket with the card.
“Thanks,” he said. Then he began scrambling up the dirt bank on his still-unsteady legs. As he disappeared on a trail among blackberry brambles, I pondered whether I should shout after him and offer my couch for the night. But the notion he might be infested with lice, or worse, kept me silent. I walked away and went home.
Chapter 8
The next morning I got up late after a night of tossing and turning. My discovery of John Steel, pickled in alcohol and virtually on my doorstep, see
med uncanny, given the traumatic associations I had with his hometown. While I was eating breakfast, Peyton McKean called and urged me to come to ImCo. He said he was expecting results in what was now a full-scale effort to identify the biological agent from the Spaniard. I went out and hurried the few blocks to ImCo. Finding McKean’s office empty, I went across the hall to his laboratory and found him talking on a wall-mounted telephone. He quickly finished his conversation and hung up the phone.
“That was Kay Erwin with more news,” he said. “There are now five cases of mania in Neah Bay. The Centers for Disease Control is on the verge of getting involved.”
“Are they going to declare a quarantine?”
“Not yet, but maybe soon.”
“Why not right now?”
“There still has been no definitive diagnosis of a disease or what’s causing it. Kay reminded me that public health is always a balance between protecting people and alarming them needlessly.”
I shook my head. “After what happened with the jihad virus - “
“The CDC may have waited too long in that case,” McKean agreed. “But even then, consider the outcome. A few people died, to be sure. But my vaccine was available in time to stop a general outbreak. You can’t expect any government agency to do much better than that. On the other hand, we may not have to wait on the CDC very long this time. The situation has escalated. Kay just told me one of those two non-Indian sport fishermen died this morning at the Makah Clinic, before the ambulance arrived to take him to the county hospital at Port Angeles.”
“How did he die?”
“Fever, convulsions, and a raving mania like we saw in Pete Whitehall. But high fever is what finally took him.”
“So, why isn’t it obvious they should quarantine Neah Bay?”
“That’s easy for you or me to say because we saw Pete Whitehall die. But look at it from the CDC’s perspective. They have one drowning victim and one death from a fever of unknown origin. They have yet to get hands on any microbe or any DNA evidence from either of the cases. Now, to be sure, five cases of odd behavior in the same town is provocative, and I imagine they take it quite seriously. But without a microbe or some other data, they can’t conclude this is beyond the realm of random chance. They can’t quarantine a town just because they think there may be a problem. They’ve got to consider the economic costs. Businesses suffer. The marina would lose its customers. People might lose their jobs. Quarantine is not a step to be taken prematurely. But I think Kay has been moving the CDC in the right direction. She said they’re sending an outbreak-response team from Atlanta to Neah Bay, arriving tomorrow. That’s pretty snappy service from a government bureaucracy.”