by James Hadman
Mother interrupted my thoughts. “Huh. I thought so. More of that scribbling. That useless stuff has already ruined your life.”
This was familiar ground for both of us. Mother had never made a secret of her disapproval when Father taught me to read and write. She wanted me to become accomplished at weaving dance robes and making baskets, but I had learned to keep his journal instead. She was convinced that this was the reason I hadn’t married and now she could blame my shaman’s calling on writing, too.
“Come, Daughter. Tell me what your father says. This will be like his spirit talking to us.”
I scanned the message to get the sense of it and discovered Father had indeed foreseen the possibility that Mother would want to know what he had written.
‘My dearest daughter, don’t share this entire letter with your mother as what I have to tell you would only upset her. I have written a number of admonitions for you, but your mother doesn’t need to know about them.
‘The most important thing to tell your mother is that she can honour my memory by helping you in your quest to become a shaman.
‘After that, tell my darling Wind Spirit that she is the love of my life and the spirit world will be lonely until she joins me, but she must not hurry. Spirit time is not like time in Klawak and she should enjoy every day she can spend with you and her grandchildren.
‘When you have told her these things, put this letter away until you are alone and I can finish telling you why I have written to you.’
After I realized what Father had in mind, I read aloud to her and when I got to the part about me becoming a shaman, she nodded and said, “Now I see why he wanted to wait to give this to you. Three summers ago you weren’t old enough to understand the commitment that will require.” I kept reading to her and the line about them being together again made her cry.
“It isn’t fair,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I am missing him down here and I am so sad. I want us to be together again just like always.”
“Be patient, Mother. He’ll be waiting for you.” She was quiet for a long moment. Then she smiled.
“Well, one thing I can do to keep his memory close. I’ll get Seal Killer to host a wonderful potlatch to honour his memory.” She began describing plans and while her attention was diverted, I put my letter away.
I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it until the following morning because that evening I had to supervise the Park children who had discovered Arrow’s puppies and wanted to play with them. The tiny things’ eyes were newly opened, so I held them while the children petted them gently.
Arrow watched closely, but she trusted me completely. When I shooed the children out and put the puppies back in her bed, she checked them thoroughly, licking and cleaning each pup before letting them nurse. Watching the little things kneading her teats and suckling made my breasts twinge again. What was going on?
This had to be a ridiculous example of communicating with animals. I knew a killer whale had led my father to Park, but I couldn’t imagine a connection between that important event and twinges in my breasts from watching puppies nurse. The thought made me laugh out loud and it felt good to be silly.
In the morning when there was enough daylight, I sat in the privacy of my sleeping area and took out my legacy letter. Skipping over the benign beginning, I found the start of the actual letter and this is what my father wrote.
‘My dearest daughter, my heart is heavy as I share my thoughts with you. After I am gone, I am convinced you will be our only hope. I have taught you to read and write a whiteface language, so you will be able to communicate with them if necessary. But, that isn’t the most important thing I have to tell you. Except for Seal Killer and me, no one has seen the terrible power of the whiteface weapons. If Seal Killer is still alive when you read this, he can vouch for the power of those weapons. People will be skeptical when you tell them about fire-sticks that kill from afar. They won’t believe that an even bigger weapon the whitefaces possess can roar and destroy men and canoes at great distances. I tell you now and Seal Killer can verify I speak truth that these weapons, like the whitefaces themselves, are both real and lethal.
Our recent encounter with the little whiteface canoe has opened my eyes. Those men didn’t respect us and had no interest in communicating with us as equals. We could see that they feared us; however, that fear didn’t prevent them from claiming our land without even contacting us. They didn’t ask us for permission or offer to pay us before conducting their ceremony to claim our land.
When I was a young man in Siberia, I saw my people take the natives’ lands, steal their furs, and enslave them. They killed everyone who resisted with their fire-sticks. When the whitefaces return to our land, and they will return, I’m certain they will behave the same way here.
After the whitefaces on that little ship performed their land-claim ceremony, I knew that our people were in deadly danger. I believe our best chance is for us to capitalize on the fear they appear to have for us. We must be ready to fight them and I will tell you how to do that.
You must become a powerful shaman. People listen to our shamans and respect them, so they will listen to you and believe what you say. Once you achieve this goal, you must carry this message to all the villages and warn everyone of the coming danger.
Tell the people that the whitefaces may offer many wonderful things to trade for furs. Trade for nothing except whiteface weapons and learn to use them. Tell them not to believe the lies whitefaces tell. They will promise anything to get our furs and offer seductive presents to start trade. If whitefaces are frustrated in these efforts, the people must guard against them capturing our yitsatis and war chiefs to hold hostage and force us to trade. It saddens me to write of such atrocities, but I witnessed all those things in Siberia.
Our warriors must never fight the whitefaces face to face because their weapons are too powerful. If it comes to war, we must kill them with stealth and cunning. Slay them when they sleep. Ambush them at every opportunity. Show no mercy as they will have none for us.
Our warriors must be fierce and unpredictable. They must strike terror into the whitefaces’ hearts. Attack at night, ambush in stormy weather, slay them in places where they feel safe. The whitefaces will arrive in great canoes, but they are made of wood. Our warriors can set them on fire in the night. The whitefaces may build compounds and forts on our lands and these, too, can be burned.
If our people do all these things, they will have a chance to drive the whitefaces from our land, but their chances are not good. Whitefaces are greedy and resourceful and if they succeed in satisfying their greed our very survival will be in jeopardy. That message of survival is what you need to focus on.
My darling daughter, child of my heart, it grieves me to have to tell you these awful things about the men I grew up among, but I know from experience that when they come, they will bring great danger for our people.
The path I have asked you to follow will be hard and perilous, my Copper Spirit, but our people have no one else to warn them of the danger that lies ahead.
The last admonition I leave you with, my beloved daughter, is to write. Keep your journal faithfully and tell the true story of our people. The written word has more power than all the whitefaces’ dreadful weapons.
Your devoted father,
Copper Hair/Abraham Petrovich
Klawak, 7 September, 1775
I rolled the little scroll carefully and returned it to its box. As my mother said, it was almost as if Father had spoken to me from the spirit world and while his words frightened me they demonstrated the power of writing. He had written that Seal Killer could attest to the power of the whiteface weapons. Later that day, I sought him out and asked about the weapons described in my legacy letter.
“Everything he told you is true. I have used such a fire-stick and it is big medicine. With it I killed a deer with one shot. An
d the other weapon—very powerful—we fired that one in a demonstration. It roared and smashed an old canoe to splinters from afar.”
“What became of the weapons?”
“When we ran out of the magic powder that made them speak, they were useless.” Having Seal Killer confirm the power of the whiteface weapons added to my anxiety.
Now that I knew what lay ahead for me, I needed to catch my journal up to date. When I had kept Father’s journal, I was merely a student, intent on penmanship and spelling, and creating good sentences. From now on it would be different. Now I could clearly see how my journal must tell the story of our people so that no one would forget important details or change things to suit themselves.
A stunning revelation made me shiver. I held power when I held my quill. Every word I wrote was important. I would tell our story as Father would have wanted it. I got out my writing kit, sat down, and began working on my journal.
My last entries had described Father’s death and funeral. I began anew by describing our present situation, with Mother moving in with Seal Killer and Cedar Weaver. I wrote about me staying in Rust House with Arrow and inviting the Park families to live with me. I wrote page after page until I realized my stock of bark leaves was running low. I would have to prepare more bark soon if I continued to write this much. I concentrated on making my letters even smaller and managed to fit my catch-up entries on my remaining pages.
10 March, 1778: Now that both the Kushdaka spirit and my father’s letter had charged me with becoming a shaman, I could no longer delay. I must go to Howkan soon and start my training with Sky Shaker. My mother didn’t share my sense of urgency. She was stalling, hoping to find me a mate. Perhaps she thought that by ignoring my calling, it would become a phase that would pass, and then I’d settle down and start a family. That would not be possible. My legacy letter had set out my destiny and it was time for my training to begin.
I found Mother at Seal Killer’s house and broached the subject of going to Howkan. As I expected, she was full of excuses.
“I’m too old to make that trip way down there, Daughter. You’ll have to go alone. My place is here. I’ve been talking to Seal Killer and we are planning a potlatch to honour your father this summer.”
“Father wouldn’t want you to stay here when his spirits have charged me with such an important task. Remember all the stories you told me about Moose Woman and how she had paddled all the way down here from Sitka in the middle of winter–and she was truly old. So, I don’t want to hear any more of this ‘too old’ nonsense. I’ll help you pack. Sky Shaker will be glad to see you and I really need your help.”
She looked at me. Finally, she spoke. “You truly are your father’s daughter. He could talk me into anything. The only good thing I can see coming out of this is that I’ll get a chance to find out if there is a suitable mate for you down there. When do you want to leave?”
I smiled at her. Mother could be difficult, but I knew she had the heart of a warrior. “I’m ready to go anytime and the sooner we leave the happier I’ll be. They certainly don’t need me around here.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll have the slaves pack up my things.”
“We’ll need to find a crew for my new canoe.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Wind Spirit said with a wry smile. “Half the young men in Klawak would jump at the chance to take a canoe trip with you.”
“That’s what I don’t want. I’ll ask my brothers if my nephews can crew for us. They’re husky boys.” Not only were they relatives but also younger than me which eliminated them as eligible mates. We packed up and I was ready to go, but Mother wasn’t.
“It’s blowing a gale and colder than a spirit’s piss,” she said, shivering as we sat close to the fire. “Let’s wait until the weather’s a little better, so we can fly the wind-wing.” So, we waited while the icy wind howled.
How long would it take me to become a shaman? I had no idea, but Father’s letter conveyed an aura of urgency. He had waited nearly forty years before whitefaces appeared. I doubted I would have that much time. I had to begin preparing for their return as soon as possible.
24 March, 1778: On a morning, nearly half a moon after Mother agreed to go with me, I stirred in the dark. The absence of wind probing the house, rustling in the roof, and whistling through the cracks in the house must have awakened me. I found my warmest cloak and stepped outside. A thin slice of a moon and sharp cold met me. The pale light of the waning moon lit the winter landscape, but the dark trees drank its feeble light. Only a few vagrant rays escaped to reflect a silvery path on the water, but they were enough to show me it was calm. It was time to leave.
I walked over to Seal Killer’s house and found Mother. I shook her awake and informed her that the weather had changed. She grumbled but got up and started to pull on all her warm clothes.
“Is it cold out there?” I nodded. “Have you sent for your nephews?”
“Not yet, but now that you’re up, that’s next.” I went back to Rust House, roused Olga and told her to go around to my brothers’ houses and wake my nephews.
A winter sunrise lit the scene when six boys arrived with their gear and a fair amount of complaining. We broke the shore ice and launched my new canoe with Copper Hair’s crest animals, which were now mine, painted on its hull. While we were loading the canoe, Seal Killer and Cedar Weaver came down to see us off.
We departed Klawak during the last of the Noisy Goose Moon with the nephews paddling us out of the channel into the larger inlet.
We were finally headed for Howkan and my new future. I was both excited and nervous. I took Father’s treasured journals with me. Taking no chances, I had packed both journals, mine as well as my father’s, into waterproof halibut-skin bags and then tucked them securely into three nearly waterproof bentwood boxes and tied down the lids.
Besides my nephews, we had Olga and Elena with us. We took them along to set up our household in Howkan and help with Arrow and her two pups now that their eyes were open. Mother wanted me to leave them home, but Arrow had always traveled with me and she would go with me now. I made a cosy nest for my little family close by my place in the stern.
We headed down the inlet with me steering. The nephews paddled for the first couple of miles until a breeze sprang up. They stepped the mast and passed the lines to control the wind-wing back to me in the stern. I set it just as Father had taught me. Mother let out a little cheer and clapped as the wind-wing filled and the canoe leaped ahead.
We sailed easily enough until early afternoon when we were approaching the tidal narrows that divided Haida lands from those of the Tlingit people. The wind shifted against us, so I furled the wind-wing and the nephews broke out their paddles. The current was strong and it too was flowing against us. The narrowest part of the passage where the water raced through even faster was some distance ahead. I steered us close to shore and caught an occasional helpful eddy, but I could tell we wouldn’t succeed in bucking our way through. The tide change that would provide a favourable current wouldn’t happen until after dark. I began looking for a place to camp.
We crept around a bluff point with everyone paddling furiously. Up ahead, I recognized a special spot where Father and I had camped just last summer. I turned the canoe toward the shore.
“I’ve been here before and that’s a good place to stop,” I said, pointing up ahead. Mother followed my gesture and shrugged.
“That doesn’t look suitable to me. The beach in there is pretty steep and narrow and I don’t see a stream where we can get water. We can get closer to the narrows, Daughter. See, we’re making headway.” We were gaining all right, but I could have crawled faster. What was the point of this? With a fair current in the morning, we’d fly down through here.
“My spirits are telling me to camp right here.” Mother looked at me sharply, no doubt wondering at how quickly my spirits had mad
e that decision. I didn’t care. Strangely enough, I did feel this particular campsite drawing me. I knew that around the next point and out of sight a waterfall dropped over a rocky cliff directly into a pool on the beach. Last summer I had bathed in that pool while Father went fishing and caught a small halibut for our supper. After we ate, we had used the long twilight to get the journal caught up. We took turns recalling events and I recorded them.
“I suppose this is as good a place as any,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and dipping her paddle. We landed in a snug bight out of sight of the waterfall. We unloaded the canoe and carried up it up the beach to a grass-covered flat. We turned it on its side to serve as our overnight shelter.
After I made sure Arrow and her puppies were settled, I left the others to finish setting up the camp. I picked up a water box and set out to visit the waterfall and the inviting pool I remembered. Even though it was much too cold to bathe in the pool today, I looked forward to returning to the spot of my happy memory. I clambered around a rocky point and there it was—however, my summer recollection of water surging smoothly over the edge of the rocky cliff and hurtling into the pool below had been transformed into an icy scene. I could hear falling water, and when I walked closer to the falls and ice-rimmed pool, wind-whipped droplets of moisture drifted over me and froze in my hair.
I stood quietly treasuring the beauty of this magic spot. Never far from conscious thought since I’d read my legacy letter, and here in this special place, with the murmur of the frozen falls in my ears, I could feel the peril Father described. If whitefaces came and took our land, I couldn’t stand here and feel as if I belonged in this place. My thoughts swirled like eddies in that pool.
I was filling the water box when a winter raven coasted in and landed on the beach across the pool from me. He hopped over and pecked at an object on the shore that I hadn’t noticed before. It appeared to be a dead animal. I went back to filling the water box when I spotted movement. Perhaps the creature wasn’t dead after all. I needed a closer look.