The next day, when I woke up, my mother was sitting in the kitchen holding her cup and saucer. She asked me to sit down. All night, she stayed awake, thinking. With my father gone and children to care for, Mor had resolved I should quit school and go to work.
Though more than a little distressed, out of boy-mannish pride I turned away, as if I didn’t care. Certainly, I did care. So, why didn’t I tell her? If I had, everything might have been different.
“Fine,” I coldly replied. “Just let me tell the schoolmaster.”
“Fine, but it’s your last day,” she said.
I left our little cottage at the usual time. The sky, as dull as a nail, opened up. Each snowflake was the size of my eye. My mother, noticing that I had left my cap on the table inside, brought it out to me. I can see her still, in her cutout housedress leaning out over that pretty porch rail to hand me my father’s old fisherman’s cap, floppy as a pancake. When my mother handed me his cap, the dry snow was blowing all around her.
As I turned to go I noticed, underneath the lace curtain, the innocent eyes of my brothers and sisters eagerly beseeching. Would they get enough to eat? Keep each other warm? I pretended that it didn’t matter. I imagined that they didn’t belong to me as I strolled down to the quay, whistling.
My mother hoped that I would find as a job as a farm laborer, a butcher’s boy, or a blacksmith’s apprentice. Anything that would put milk and meat on the table. Her words meant nothing; all I knew was the bitterness in her voice.
Stepping off, I felt almost cheerful. A chunk of snow slid off one of the rooftops, cracked my head like a flowerpot. I didn’t curse; instead, I laughed. Nothing bothered me. I was that eager to get away.
By noon that day I had signed onto a British merchant ship, departing for the Greenland Sea at high tide. The captain took me on as a cabin boy. I was not yet of age, so, when I signed the papers, he wrote in his own surname, Langlie. Like a father, he taught me the trade, and also how to make vodka from potatoes, but that’s another story.
Pappa’s name is lost.
A winter’s tale is a sad tale. By and by I learned to rue that day. It’s not the weepy eye of Mor that keeps me up at night, oh no. It’s the moaning of the little children who, by and by, had not so much as a crumb to eat.
I had wanted to be free, so I fled.
16
S’Klallam Fishing Weir
c. Fall 1888
Annie observed, “It’s getting colder. The fish are running early this year.”
In the fall the rainy curtain rises on the drama of the leaping fish. Each year I looked forward to the long walk along the high bank of the Dungeness River, to a mountain lake, a winking eye in between the wispy peaks. There, we fished and picked berries and harvested camas.
However, three weeks into my second season at the Burrowes School, my father delivered the news: “Millie stays. So as not to fall behind.”
What? My Jamestown “cousins” big and small absented themselves for a week or more and no one said a word. I gaped at Carl, but before I could speak he stopped me. “Don’t say nothin’. I’m in a dark mood.” His silver-plated molars bit down on the stem of his pipe with a sharp clack that made my jaw hurt. My mother, chafing her hands on her apron, remained silent.
Sun up on the following day, Carl went fishing. With Julia strapped to the cradleboard, for the first time Annie strolled with me to school. In between the boughs, at once several meters ahead, or behind, Charley danced. To my mother, I said nothing. As usual she had refused to stand up for me, and so I hated her.
When we reached the clearing, there was Miss Bright, shrub-like, in the vestibule of the Burrowes School. Right off, she spied Annie in a hand-stitched gingham blouse topped off by Carl’s plaid work shirt, the hem of her long skirt trailing behind. On her feet elk slippers: durable, waterproof, and flexible for climbing. Miss Bright, giddy, must have forgot that Indians hate to shake hands (except, of course, the Shaker zealots). To evade her virile grip, my mother adjusted the strap on her cradleboard. Nodding, she set off, Charley skipping over her heels.
“Is that your mother? You don’t resemble her. Where is she off to?”
I bit my lip. “They’re headed up to the autumn camp near the lake. To harvest berries and smoke fish.”
Miss Bright asked, “So, why are you here?”
Dumbfounded, I stared at her.
“Ahh,” she said, “the spelling bee.’ Evidently bored, she added, “No doubt, you’ll win.”
I won first prize: a pencil. Huzzah! My goal had been to impress Miss Bright, but since she didn’t care, neither did I. Somehow or other I had let her down: a most familiar feeling.
Pondering, I recalled her words: Life is an experiment. I could still impress her. At noon, I stepped out of the schoolhouse into a solid downpour. I had a plan. I would track Annie, east on the Dungeness River, then up the steep trail to Marmot Pass. If I made time, I might stumble into camp before dark.
Thirty minutes to cross the Sequim prairie to surmount the first footbridge. My thin pink hair fell down as I leaned over the handrail to watch the water hobble over the rocks, which glittered in the afternoon sun like heaped-up treasure. All at once, a barnacled rainbow, with a hooded brow and hooked snout, leaped up. It had to weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds. It landed on a rock, spewing sperm and blood. Before I had time to appreciate the stunt, another fish—a meter in length—followed. This fish fell back as well, and disappeared into a black pool underneath the bearded bank.
I counted the swift shadowed fish, hemmed in on all sides, layer upon layer, until the numbers became a cascade. The Dungeness was no longer a river but a churning salmon byway. One tired fish, scraped a rock, unfurling in his path a bleeding ribbon of loose flesh. Others, less lucky, marinated belly up in the hot sun. In the shallows, between the flat rocks, pink pearls peppered with sand. At any moment these eggs would hatch. The emerging redds would feed on the salty flaking flesh of their spent parents. As the timeless murder of Kronus reveals, even the gods can’t stop the inevitable: youth consumes old age.
The course of a river, inscribed on rolled maps that travel the world, armchair travelers regard as fixed. Navigators know the truth. A river is a narrative that evolves. A river, for as long as it survives seeks the most direct route to deep water. Even a historic river in a well-established channel may suddenly change course. When the first whites settled the flood plain, the Dungeness River leaped up, and broke free, abruptly jogging to the southeast. Some blamed the new farmers who engineered dikes and canals to feed their fields. Perhaps it was just nature’s way. These days the river, once boiling with fish, tends to run either too fast or too slow. Though a flood to some, the salmon run is a trickle compared to what it was.
I threw a twig into the water, and then jumped to the north side to watch it reappear. Underneath the bridge, anchored to the supports, I saw a S’Klallam fishing weir. Inside, a dozen or so mazy fish. In the old days, a trap such as this one, made of sticks, would have waylaid enough fish to feed an entire village. Whenever my father Carl noticed an un-manned weir, he would lament, “It’s the lazy man’s way.” He used a cork line, a lead line, and three different types of net—not to mention the muscles in his arm—to capture salmon.
My mother disagreed. “It’s smart instead of stupid. Why go after the fish when the fish will come to you?”
I returned to the trail and went on, slapping at mosquitoes, once in a while angling to escape the stench of dead fish, an aroma which fortunately quelled my hunger and thirst. I carried on in this way for some time. But, after about three quarters of an hour, I realized my mistake. The river, refreshed by the summer melt that tumbled down the mountain, thrummed. Annie, I was certain, observing the thrashing water, had crossed over to the steeper trail on the south side.
I contemplated my dilemma: to return to that place and lose the better part of an hour, or to tempt the gnashing current? To get to the other side, I would have to leap from rock to rock. I
f I removed my stockings and my skirt, there was a chance I could make it. However, if I dropped my clothes in the river, or even if I didn’t, a hypothermic chill might addle me, and cause me to lose my way.
What to do? Take on the mad river, or go back and lose time?
A reply from just behind me, a blowy distraught moan.
The breeze lifted up the tasty stench of wet dog.
I whipped around.
Black bears—hooded in their brown fur—are shy, reluctant to sound off. This one sounded out until its saturated lips vibrated. In response, a bellowing sob, like that of a human baby. On the opposite side of the fast river, a shiny black cub clawed at a slender pine. The mother studied me with dull eyes.
A pregnant bear-momma carries its offspring for about the same amount of time as a human. Once the cub is born she’ll care for it for a full year and more. If the cub is male, in late summer or autumn of his second year he must strike out on his own. To the female cub the mother bear cedes a portion of her territory. The mama continues to track her, risking her own life to save the adolescent should the need arise.
Fate had sent the she-bear, to teach me how to deal with Annie. Nature’s textbook; if only I had paid attention to the lesson. I didn’t, so she and I suffered.
Back to the more pressing problem: confronted by a bear, what is the proper response? Advice abounds: Grab a big stick. Wave it, and shout. (No such weapon was available.) Take five steps back. Turn, and run. (With the river behind me, and a wall-of-bear in front of me, not an option.) Lie down and play dead. (Would you?) Never, ever look a bear in the eye. (Too late.) Her eyeballs had penetrated mine. I had entered the Brain of the Universal Bear. Until she was prepared to let go, the Universal Bear owned me.
Madam Blunderbuss fumed from side to side, slapping her feet on the soft sod. Her matted winter coat, decorated with a potpourri of seeds, twigs, and blossoms, made her to look even more enormous. With a stony expression, more evil for its emptiness, she stood on her hind legs. When she clacked her teeth, I could smell her fossilized breath. Her tongue looked like a bleeding wound.
The bear dipped her paw menacingly in my direction. Not quite so demure, I plunged into the rapid river. The current, which a few minutes before appeared an impregnable barrier, welcomed me like an eager dance partner.
I scrambled up the opposite bank. Nose to snout an under-sized river monster, the chary bear cub began to bawl. Head first I hit the brambles and wormed my way inside. Through the sticky boughs I observed the she-bear shake her hips and rise up. Her chuffing grumble—terrifying to me—little by little pacified the cub, who worked his way down the tree. After that a shuffling plash, followed by a piddling scramble. Something—or someone—had provoked the filial pair to move on.
Through the thorns I spied a pair of spiked boots. How was it that in every crisis Jake-the-Indian-tracker materialized? I crawled out of my hole on bruised bleeding elbows. I was only half right. It was Jake Cook’s half-brother George. He seemed more miffed than concerned, not enough to unpack the hunting rifle strapped to one shoulder.
He looked down at me, studied me, and remarked, “Dzunuk’wa.”
The mythic cannibal woman of the north. Forest dweller, without a mate. Loveless and unafraid. No doubt, I appeared otherworldly. The berry branches had coordinated a hostile campaign, replacing the freckles on my arms and legs with overripe berries. In a cloud of gnats, covered in all manner of natural debris, I deserved the label: wild woman of the woods.
I asked George, “Did you see that?
“What?”
“A momma-bear. Mad to save her cub.”
“Not just one bear, but two?”
Later on he confessed that it was the deeper rumble of a bull that caused him to leave the trail to investigate. If the male bear hears an infant cry, he will track it and destroy it, along with anything else in its path. George, sliding down the bank, arrived in time to see the mother bear and the glossy buttocks of the baby crashing through the brush. He lied, to tease me? To downplay his heroic intervention? I meant to feel grateful, but—
I rinsed my wounds in the cold copper current. Together we scrambled up the steep bank, gripping onto anything without thorns. Over his shoulder George carried a sack of twisted apples. Up on the trail he offered me one. He inquired, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“So?”
“I used to think you were smart.”
“You quit school to work at the lumber mill.”
“I did it because I had to.”
“They pay you three dollars a week.”
“So what?”
I moved past him, to take the lead. His hand on my shoulder reined me in. “Jennie needed cash for her cubs. As soon as I can find a way out of here, I plan to go to trade school to become an engineer.”
An Indian at college? Is that possible? I wondered.
“One day, I’ll be in charge.” He touched the flat of his bent thumb to his heart. “One day I’ll be the boss. One day I’ll be rich.”
I stared at him. “You’re crazy.”
“Dzunak’wa.”
He let me lead, up the trail, winding and steep. After a long while, we arrived at a felled log with a view of the Sequim valley, the Strait, and Vancouver Island. On a bandana George unfurled dinner, which included two more apples and a hunk of smoked trout.
I hoisted myself up onto a large stump. George re-tied his cleated boots. I recalled how at first I had assumed it was his brother Jake who had appeared out of nowhere to save me.
“Your half-brother Jake is quite a bit older than you—”
“Nearly twenty years older. Jake is from Jennie’s first marriage. After Thomas Cook, she married my father. My father died when I was small. Maybe that’s why I look up to Jake. He’s more a half-brother. He’s brother-father-uncle. I know I can rely on him.”
“Where does he sleep?”
Tossing his apple core, George replied, “In a cabin in the woods. Maybe he built it. Maybe he found it. Who knows? Usually he stops in for dinner but he never stays. He prefers to live alone.”
George helped me down off the stump. He pointed out the trail.
I remarked, “Your brother Jake is weird. What’s the matter with him?”
George said nothing for a long time. I was pretty sure that my rude question had put him off. I was about to apologize when he asked, “Millie, how old are you? Almost twelve now?”
He went on. “When Jake was younger than you, he was there. The massacre at Dungeness. How he ended up there, I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it. I suppose he wanted to be with his father. When Thomas, along with the others, was sentenced to hard labor on the Skokomish Reservation, Jake went with him. Two dozen men cleared more than a hundred acres by hand. Jennie believes it was the backbreaking labor and rough treatment that eventually did Thomas in. By the time the father and son returned, Jake was also ill. Thomas died. Jake recovered. At least, he seemed to. In another way, he didn’t.”
With a frond he wiped away the smear of mosquitos that hovered over us. “What Jake needs is—a girl. According to Jennie. Each time he drops in, she drops a hint. The last time, Jake left and stayed away for a month. Jennie says in the past he did something—bad.” George paused. “Apparently, his waywardness makes him even more attractive. More than one women has gone fishin’ for his lost soul. I have a different theory. I think he’s already taken.”
“Jake’s always, always alone.”
“Maybe he can’t be seen with her because she’s off limits. Jake won’t give her up, even if it kills him. That’s how he is. When he decides to stick, no man-made law, or force of nature, can move him.”
Of course I wanted to know more. I was about to demand a name—or a list of names—when, in a branch above our heads, a Douglas squirrel with a flame of orange on his belly shrieked. He chased a smaller female squirrel round and round the braided trunk of a fir. The female squirrel eluded him. She leaped, dropped, and ran vertically
down an adjacent tree. The irate male clicked out a command: Stop. In response, she whirled, not to heed but to mock him. She laughed. Then, suddenly, without warning, and for no real reason, she gave in. He leaped; she met him half way. The two squirrels mated violently.
I looked at George; ashamed, he looked down.
The last rays of the sun cut through the cedar forest.
“Let’s go,” he said.
As the trail climbed, the scrubby pines that curled up from the vertical slopes became more and more sparse until the twisted shrubs gave way to a meadow carpeted with alpine flowers: hanging bluebells, a whorl of magenta, the yellow slipper with wide-open lips.
I stood there on the edge of a waterfall that boomed. Icy drops leaped up. I became part and particle with the gushing green that raked its furry fingers across the spongy meadow. For an instant I had the urge to toss myself over the edge and become one with the flow of nature and time.
Down below, in the center of camp, my mother looked on as Jake unjacketed a coho with his carving knife. He leaned in to hear her laugh. She smiled broadly, and then absently lifted her gaze to inspect the horizon, searching. For something stolen, lost, something that was never really hers? Me?
I tumbled down the steep path. George, not far behind, hissed, “Be careful, slow down.”
By the time we arrived at the camp, the sun was down, the night air, cold enough for snow, polished the breeze. The sky fell.
Annie tossed me a blanket. Rather than scold, she asked, “What took you so long?”
Jake Cook, without a word, handed me my dinner blackened on a stick. Near at hand, he seemed a less romantic figure. A stalwart, Carl’s partner. By the time he handed me the clay mug—weak, with sugar—I had already ceased to notice him.
In the Land of the Salmon People
A Skokomish Tale
It has been said, “When the salmon disappear, the S’Klallam will disappear.” Salmon hold a central place in their lives and their lore.
Dungeness Page 6