Children of the Fog
Page 42
"He died last year swimming out to Fallen Island," she continued, as if I weren't even there.
"I heard," I said. "My dad told me and my mom about it. I'm really sorry about your brother."
She stared at me with huge dark eyes. "I'm a Huu-ay-aht First Nations Indian. Most people call us Nootka Indians. Nana told me your family used to live in the United States—in Wyoming."
"Uh-huh," I said. "My dad's Canadian though. My mom and I are American."
"Any Indians in Wyoming?"
I nodded.
I told her that around our ranch, it was common to find an Arapaho Indian buying one of my mother's paintings. We even had a Shoshone live in our barn for a while. He blessed our lands, our garden and my mother in return.
"So why'd you say that was your brother out there?" I asked.
She looked at Fallen Island. "Nootka believe that killer whales are magical and powerful creatures—almost human. One legend says that killer whales would knock over canoes and drag fishermen overboard, down to the Village of the Whales. Then the drowned men would turn into whales themselves." She stood slowly. "My brother has become a whale."
She said this simply—as if there were no other explanation.
"What's his name?" I asked as goosebumps dotted my arms.
"Robert."
Finally, the boy from my father's story had a name.
My eyes wandered to the initials engraved on the raft. R.D.
Robert Dixon.
Even at such a young age, I understood how much Goldie needed to believe her Nootka legend. It made sense to me at the time. But as I watched her, I felt sorry for her. Her brother was dead. It was that simple.
Goldie jumped into the water. "Have you ever heard of the Haida Indians?" she asked, treading water.
I shook my head.
"The Haida believe that if you see a whale near a town or village, you're really seeing someone who drowned, someone who's trying to talk to his family."
Neither of us said a word. We simply stared at each other in quiet understanding. Then I dove into the water and we swam back to shore. I kept an eye out behind us though, looking for the whale. I think even Goldie knew that I was nervous.
On the beach, we sat down on some driftwood, dried off with our towels and talked about everything that we liked—our favorite foods, music and singers. She was a big fan of Shaun Cassidy. I was hooked on the Bay City Rollers.
I didn't know why, but it was as though I'd known her all my life. Amber-Lynn wouldn't be happy with me. Regardless, I was ecstatic to have met a new friend—even if Goldie did believe her brother was a killer whale.
"You have very dark skin…for a white girl," she said, eyeing me. "You sure you're not Indian?"
"My mom's part Italian. She's pretty dark too. My dad, though, he's…uh…light."
"My parents are Nootka. My Nana lives with us too—my grandmother. She's seventy-two years old. I also have a little sister. Shonda. She's five. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
I told her how my parents had struggled to have children and that when I came along they were so relieved that they decided to have only me. I asked her more about Robert and learned that he, like me, had been an excellent swimmer.
Goldie was very animated when she spoke about him. Her hands moved expressively and I discovered that she was a great storyteller. When she learned that my father was a scientist and was on the island to research killer whales, she grew silent. I knew she was worried about something.
"He won't hurt them, will he?" she asked, biting her lip.
I was stunned by that simple question.
"Of course not. He's here to study them, to find out how they communicate with each other and what their sounds mean. He'd never hurt them."
Goldie was relieved. She stared past the raft, searching the water for a sign. I knew she was thinking of her brother.
As we dried ourselves off and proceeded down the beach toward my house, I invited her to come home with me and meet my mother. But she insisted she had to go home to look after her sister while her grandmother cooked supper.
"I'll be here tomorrow," I said. "Where do you live anyway?"
She pointed down the beach and told me that her house was around the bend, just beyond a small dock. I promised her that I'd return the next day.
Then I raced home.
As I sprinted up to the deck and entered through the sliding doors, I glanced at my watch. "Shoot." I was late.
"I'm home," I hollered.
I heard footsteps overhead. "Sarah, is that you?"
"Yeah, Mom."
A minute later she appeared. "I was just about to go look for you. It's almost half past four." She tapped her watch.
"Sorry," I said. "I met an Indian girl when I was swimming and we started talking…and I forgot about the time."
My mother sat down at the dining room table. "What's your friend's name?"
I told her all about Goldie. When I got to the part about her brother, my mother's smile vanished.
"Mom, did you know that some Indians believe that if a person drowns they can come back as a whale?"
"That's a wonderful legend," she replied, her smile returning.
Outside, a car engine rumbled to a stop. A second later, the back door opened and my father appeared.
"Hey," he said. "What have you two been up to all day?"
Before he could take his shoes off, I told him all about Goldie, her brother and the whale in the bay.
"She's afraid you'll hurt the whales," I said.
He patted my hand. "Tell her I'm just studying them. I promise I won't hurt them."
At suppertime, my father told us he had some exciting news.
"Sea Corp is getting a new schooner with state-of-the-art electronic equipment. It's coming all the way from Finland."
He was so excited that he couldn't stop talking. He told us that the boat had been built a few years earlier and that one of his co-workers knew the previous owner and had convinced the man to sell it after a year of negotiations.
"We're going to study echolocation," my father said. "Then we'll look at whales' dialects." He turned to me. "Sarah, did you know that whales emit short sounds or clicks?"
I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh at him.
"They listen for the reflecting echo," he continued. "That's how they can tell how far away an object is. Whales measure the time it takes for the echo to return. That's called echolocation."
He loved explaining things to us with his scientific mind.
Sometimes my mother would roll her eyes and say, "Here he goes again."
"Killer whales are also called Orcas," he added. "And they're divided into three ecotypes. Do you remember what they are?"
My father was a wonderful teacher. Over the past two years, he had taught me all about whales and dolphins.
"I think so," I answered. "Residents are the ones that stay in the same area. Uh, offshores are the ones that are offshore and don't come too close in. And…I forget the last one."
He gave me a patient smile. "Transients. They're the ones that move around a lot. Some have even been sighted miles away from their original location. They're a bit unpredictable and often eat other mammals."
"Well, Professor Richardson, are you ready for dessert?" my mother said with a laugh as she reached for his plate.
His hand shot out and grabbed hers. With a shriek, she jumped back. My father stared at her, then kissed her fingers.
"I thought that was dessert," he teased, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.
"Yeah, but you never know where my fingers have been, Jack." She snatched her hand back and pretended to pick her nose.
"Ew!" I groaned.
My parents started laughing and it was contagious. Soon I joined them. Every time my mother snorted, we'd break into another fit of laughter.
Sometimes my family was so weird.
My mother and father were always touching each other, holding hands and kissing l
ike teenagers. Most of the time I quite liked it. But sometimes when my friends were around, I found it rather embarrassing.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" my father asked me.
I told him about my plans to meet Goldie again on the beach.
He asked my mother the same question.
"I'm not telling," she said, smiling mysteriously.
I went up to my room after supper and wrote a long letter to Amber-Lynn. I gave her a detailed account of the trip to Bamfield. Then I described my new house and my big bay window. I told her about the raft and swimming in the ocean. I even told her about Robert. But I never mentioned a word about Goldie. I sensed that Amber-Lynn might feel jealous of my new friend, so I told her about my father's work, the new schooner and all about echolocation. I knew that would impress her.
When I finished writing the letter, I crawled into bed.
Sometime during the night, I had a dream that I was swimming in the ocean while a full moon ascended overhead. The water was warm and soothing, and I had no fear of it. As I floated on my back and looked up at the stars, restless waves gently nudged me back to shore.
Suddenly, a whisper of movement under the water caught my eye. A streak of black and white rushed by me, just under the surface.
A killer whale.
Its gleaming body shone in the opalescent glow of the moon.
I reached out a hand as it slid past me at a leisurely pace. Its smooth slippery skin was like the softest satin. It turned and swam past me again. Then the whale sank into the depths below.
After that, I slept peacefully.
I barely recalled that dream when I awoke the next morning, but many months later I remembered it and wondered if it was some kind of omen.
I know now that it was.
I met Goldie every afternoon in July and we became fast friends and confidants. She had a keen sense of adventure and a great imagination. She loved to tell me stories of her ancestors—legends from ancient times—and I was fascinated by them. From those stories, I learned to appreciate nature and the animals around me. We often saw bald eagles soaring overhead, and sometimes white-tailed deer would wander out from the forest.
One afternoon, she invited me to her house to meet her grandmother. "Everyone says Nana is special. You'll love her."
Nana was a wrinkled wise woman with the strangest hair I had ever seen. It hung down past her waist, thick and blacker than coal—except for one piece that framed the left side of her face. It was pure white.
She had deep amber-colored eyes that always sparkled. And like a hawk, she never missed anything. She seemed to know things—things that no human should know.
The first time I saw her, she was sitting in a rocking chair with her back to the door. She didn't even flinch when we walked inside. I thought that maybe she was sleeping.
"Nana," Goldie said. "This is—"
"Your friend Sarah," Nana finished without turning around.
Casting the old woman a nervous look, I sat down at the table. Goldie passed me a plate of oatmeal cookies and I took one.
"Take another one," Nana said behind me.
I peeked over my shoulder. She still wasn't facing us.
How did she know?
Without warning, Nana looked at me and smiled. "Eat. You're too skinny. I can always make more."
The rest of that afternoon, I felt her eyes burning into the back of my head. They seemed to follow me everywhere I went.
"Told you you'd love her," Goldie said under her breath.
I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. I thought Nana was a bit spooky.
"Hey," my new friend said later. "I'll walk you home."
As we strolled along the shore, she told me that Nana was a respected healer. Almost everyone in Bamfield went to her for natural homeopathic remedies. She was knowledgeable about every plant that grew on the island and she could heal cuts and bruises with a few leaves from her garden. Every morning, she made special teas from tree bark and other ingredients that induced sleep or calmed the nerves.
"And she has a special gift," Goldie said mysteriously.
"What?" I asked.
She told me that sometimes Nana would simply look at someone and prescribe them a special remedy—before they even knew they were sick.
"That's because she sees auras," Goldie said.
She explained to me that auras were colored lights that her grandmother saw around someone's head or body. Few people saw those lights. Only those with 'the gift'.
Nana was a wise woman—in more ways than I realized.
The following weekend, Goldie invited me to stay for a sleepover. We raced back to my place to get permission from my parents. Then we collected my pajamas, toothbrush and some games.
Back at her house, we unrolled sleeping bags in the loft overlooking the living room. The ceiling was slanted and we had to duck in some areas. Once, I forgot and walked straight into the beam. Goldie spent the rest of the night yelling "Duck!" every time I stood up.
That night, we munched on homemade trail mix and buttery popcorn. We told stories and giggled long into the night—until Goldie's mom yelled at us to go to sleep.
The Dixons were very nice, even when we kept them up until the wee hours of the morning. Mr. Dixon was a commercial fisherman and was often out on his fishing boat. Mrs. Dixon wove beautiful baskets with pictures of animals on them. She sold her baskets in a charming craft shop in town.
Every morning, they left Goldie and her sister Shonda with Nana for most of the day. Shonda was a quiet child. We rarely ever saw her. She spent most of the time with Nana, helping her in the kitchen. The Dixon house always smelled like fresh-baked cookies and warm bread and Nana often gave me treats to take home to my mother.
One day, she taught me how to make bannock—fried bread served warm and dripping with butter and honey. I made a perfect batch, according to her.
"Are you sure you aren't Indian?" she teased in her raspy voice.
She would often comment on my dark coloring and my love for nature. She said that I was part Indian, but that I just didn't know which part yet.
I think she made it her duty to help me find it.
Usually when I slept over, we'd have a bonfire outside. We'd sit around the crackling fire and roast hotdogs and marshmallows on sharpened sticks.
Nana would tell us incredible stories. Sometimes, she'd even act them out. I loved listening to her—especially her old Nootka legends. She would mesmerize us with the adventures of Eagle or Bear. She would scare us with stories of strange and fierce creatures.
Then one night, she told us the legend of Sisiutl.
The School Edition comes with a discussion guides and questions for teachers and students.
You can read the rest of WHALE SONG at Amazon
You can read the rest of WHALE SONG: SCHOOL EDITION at Amazon
Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com
About the Author
Cheryl Kaye Tardif is an award-winning, bestselling Canadian suspense author. Her novels include Divine Justice, Children of the Fog, The River, Divine Intervention, and Whale Song, which New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice calls "a compelling story of love and family and the mysteries of the human heart...a beautiful, haunting novel."
She is now working on her next thriller.
Cheryl also enjoys writing short stories inspired mainly by her author idol Stephen King, and this has resulted in Skeletons in the Closet & Other Creepy Stories (ebook) and Remote Control (novelette ebook).
In 2010 Cheryl detoured into the romance genre with her contemporary romantic suspense debut, Lancelot's Lady, written under the pen name of Cherish D'Angelo.
Booklist raves, "Tardif, already a big hit in Canada…a name to reckon with south of the border."
Cheryl's website: http://www.cherylktardif.com
Official blog: http://www.cherylktardif.blogspot.com
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/cherylktardif
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