by John Straley
The commotion of the feed near the surface brought in the birds. Soon gulls wheeled and screamed over the dory. They collapsed their wings and fell onto the sea. The white birds were like darts, their feathered bodies pushing the points of their bills into the biomass.
Annabelle tried to count the birds as they gathered, first one and then another, until there were too many to count, bickering and crying, diving down and coming back up with fish draped in their bills. They shook themselves and gulped the wriggling fish down, only to dive again. Slip kept watching the school weave and split beneath them. The salmon slashed through and finally Slip saw a massive form rocketing through to take a salmon in its jaws.
A sea lion rose to the surface, whipping the big fish violently back and forth on the surface. The male sea lion might have weighed twelve hundred pounds. He took no notice of the two people in the dory some twenty feet away and shook the salmon again, then paused and lashed the fish back and forth once again until a chunk of red flesh became visible along the silver body. Blood from the gills bloomed out on the surface and the small silver fish beneath the dory swirled and disappeared, leaving a few stunned and dying individuals on the surface for the birds. The sea lion came to the surface twice more with smaller and smaller pieces of the salmon, until eventually it was gone. The birds wheeled up as a group and scattered. The air became quiet and the water regained its oily calm.
Slip began to pull on the oars once again. Some three hundred yards to the east Annabelle spotted another mass of silvery fish boiling on the surface. Again the birds gathered and again the sea lion worked the edge of the feed. This time they did not slow down, but as he pulled Slip imagined the individual fish underneath his feet endlessly combining and splitting apart, the frantic individuals finding protection in the group, each one trying to hide behind the other until the mass became one living thing. There was protection in the group, but it still could not forestall the threat of death from the big fish or the sea lion. It was going on all the time, in infinite combinations, he thought. He tapped his feet nervously against the bottom of the boat and pulled harder toward the island on the edge of the wildest crossing along the coast.
Late that evening they pulled into an anchorage behind an island, where there was enough shallow water for them to moor the dory. Just the two of them would have a hard time pulling the loaded boat up the beach to clear high tide. They waded in to the beach and built a fire, keeping a close eye on the boat. They were too tired to put up the tent so they just threw it over their blankets and slept on the warm sand near the fire. They ate the last of the halibut they had tried to dry in the sunlight, but Slip knew that they would have to either bum some food off someone along the coast or they would have to catch a fish of their own soon. A little stream cut through the rocks along the upper beach, and they were able to top off the water cask once again. Water was plentiful in this green world along the edge of the rain forest.
That night Slip woke up and saw a black form waddling down the beach snuffling and grunting toward the smell of their cook pots. He stood up, shouted, and waved his arms and the little black bear ran up into the woods. It took a few minutes but he gathered the pans and rinsed them in the sea then waded out to the dory to store them in the cook trunk. His legs were prickly with cold when he got back under the canvas and lay once again on the warm sand. Annabelle stirred only when he lifted his edge of the blanket.
“What?” she asked, still asleep. “Is something the matter?” and she brushed her raggedy braids away from her face.
“No, honey, everything’s fine. Go back to sleep,” Slip said. He rolled over with his back to her and watched the embers pulsing until he went to sleep.
Early the next morning they tried to cross Dixon Entrance, but the north wind came up and beat them back. The current cut against the wind and the sea was a violent jumble of waves. It only took a couple of hours for them to decide to come back to their anchorage. After pulling against the wind and watching themselves lose ground with every stroke of the oars, they put up the sail and eased downwind and back into the snug little bight behind the island.
The next morning the wind blew so hard they didn’t even attempt leaving the beach. They got some logs for rollers and with each of them using a lever they were able to move the dory up the beach. It made for more comfortable nights knowing that their boat was on solid ground rather than bobbing against the single frayed anchor line.
There was plenty of anxiety to be had, however. Though he never gave voice to his concerns, Slip was not certain that they could make it across Dixon Entrance unless they had near perfect conditions. There were islands off the coast but the coves looked shallow on the chart and nothing there indicated much shelter. They could curl in along the coast but they would have to make some significant crossings or risk going down into the long fjords that cut inland to the Coast Range. The sail was basically only good for a light downwind run and the weather didn’t look promising for that. The weather coming from the north was dry, but it was going to be hard to push against it. A shift from the south would have been all right but it would have brought rain, bigger seas, and the possibility of a full-fledged gale. Or at least that was how the weather had seemed to behave so far. Slip wasn’t sure about the weather patterns here on the border between British Columbia and Alaska, but nothing he had heard or seen caused him to believe that the sea would become more benign the farther north they traveled.
That night the winds shifted around from the southwest. Early in the morning it seemed as if they should make a break for it, but by the time they got the dory loaded and down the beach the gusts were bending the treetops around them and they could look out and see the waves humping up and rolling into the anchorage. By mid afternoon it was blowing a gale and the anchorage was a froth of white except for one calm spot behind a small point where the water lay down in the lee. They rolled and levered the dory back up the beach and gathered more wood for the fire. When the rain came they put up the tent and moved their blankets inside. The tent leaked, especially if a person rubbed against the inside of the soaked canvas, but it was still better than being outside. They lit candles and Annabelle read the charts and looked at some of the old magazine pages she found stuffed down in the cooking trunk, which had been used to wrap the dishes. The little black bear came back that evening and scuttled around in their pots and pans, and Slip ran outside to chase him off. He bundled the small bit of food together in another small case and hung it up in a tree. Then he washed the dishes once again and put everything back in the dory.
The next morning the fire pit was a lake of ashes and floating charred sticks. One corner of the tent had a three-inch puddle on the floor. Slip lay under his damp blanket and didn’t want to get up. They had to get across Dixon Entrance, but now they had so little food that he began to wonder whether he should take the dory out and try to jig up some kind of fish before even thinking about heading north.
When he stepped out of the tent he saw a small wooden boat in the little anchorage behind the point. It floated in the lee of the point as if made for it. The boat wasn’t rigged for fishing but had a large back deck with high sides and a high bow. It looked like a little tug that had been converted for some kind of specialty work. On the stern of the boat was the lettering, THE SHEPHERD, and under that was written BOOT COVE. Slip dug a trench in the fire pit to drain out the rainwater and he used the little axe from the dory to split dry wood. When he got the fire going he held his hands out into the smoke and rubbed them together. Although the temperature was not all that cold, the dampness was seeping into his bones.
The smoke curled around the anchorage, and soon enough a man lowered a dingy into the water from the workboat and rowed toward the beach. He was a big man with hunched shoulders. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a substantial sweater with a thick collar pulled up around his neck. When he got out of the dingy, Slip could see that he wore leather work boots that looked to be well oiled. Even so, he didn’t seem to m
ind walking through the shallow water while pulling the dingy up onto the sand.
“I’m just putting some water on. Got a little coffee left if you want to have some,” Slip called out, surprising himself with his friendliness.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the man said. He was an older man who looked as if he had lived a lifetime working out in the weather. They shook hands and Slip thought the man’s hand might have been made out of oak.
“Carl Tisher,” the man said.
“Good to meet you, Carl,” Slip replied, as he turned to pour a little more water into the blackened coffeepot.
“You folks headed across the Entrance?” Carl asked, then squatted down near the fire with his hands spread to the flames.
“Yes, we are, if the weather breaks for us.” Slip poured the last of the coffee from the can into the pot.
“Could be a long wait. All you got is that dory?” The man gestured over to the boat sitting on the sand.
“Yes sir, that’s it. Just me and a little girl. We’re headed up to Ketchikan to find her aunt.”
“Split up, did you?”
“Yes sir, this little girl’s aunt got her hand hurt bad on a job in Canada. She’s in Ketchikan. We’re just trying to catch up.”
“Well, I think I can help you. Weather should die down this morning. I can pull that dory up on the back deck. I can get you across.”
“Wouldn’t be out of your way?”
“Naw. I’m headed to Juneau to get a son of mine. He got mixed up in some foolishness and I’m going to take him back to my place.”
“Where you from, then?” Slip asked, as he poked sticks under the bottom of the coffeepot.
“South. Just a little place down in the Gulf Islands. Boot Cove.”
A chill crept up Slip’s spine. He propped the coffeepot up on a couple of rocks and reached for the axe to split some more wood.
“Boot Cove, you say,” he said.
The old man squinted into the fire and took off his hat to fan the smoke away from his face. He didn’t look up at Slip as he said, “Yes sir. That’s back down where you folks poached one of my lambs.”
NINETEEN
“The hell you say?” Slip muttered as the girl crawled sleepily out of the wet tent.
“Yes sir, and don’t bother trying to deny it neither.” Carl Tisher moved around on the other side of the smoke and sat down on a piece of driftwood. “I saw you and your dory down in that cove. I heard from Mary up the way there that you was headed north. I know it was you.”
“Well, sir, I’m sorry. We was hungry back there,” Slip said as he poured the man some boiled coffee.
“Lots of hungry people don’t steal my lambs.”
“That’s true, but I don’t have enough to pay you for it now,” Slip said.
“You’re going to get me up to Juneau and help me load up my boy.”
“But … we’ve got to go to Ketchikan and find her aunt,” Slip motioned to Annabelle, who was wrapped in the wool blanket and staring into the fire, her braids a tangle on the top of her head.
“I’m going to fuel up in Ketchikan but you’re coming with me. I’m too old to drive this damn boat all day and half the night without some help. I ’bout piled it up three times just getting this far. Sleepy, don’t you know.”
“I got to get her back with her family,” Slip insisted.
“I’ll give you half a day in Ketchikan. That’s it.”
“Or what? You’ll give us over to the cops? They’re not going to care about some old lamb in Canada.”
“No,” Carl Tisher said as he sipped his bitter coffee, “I won’t go to no cops. I’ll just knock a hole in your dory ’bout the size of both your heads and leave you here.”
Slip looked at the old man. His eyes were steady and his voice betrayed not a note of humor. He was a man who meant exactly what he said, and Slip was certain that he would do exactly what he promised.
“Did you follow us all the way up here because of the lamb?” Slip asked.
“No, I told you the truth. I’m headed up to get my kid. He’s working in a mine in Juneau and is about to get hisself shot because of some miners strike. He ended up scabbing for management and he’s going to get himself killed if I don’t get there first.”
They didn’t say anything for a few moments. The smoke swirled around the little circle of space between them. Annabelle leaned against Slip and closed her eyes again. Carl cleared his throat and softened his voice out of respect for her.
“I just kept an eye out for you on the way up. It’s a big country all right but it skinnies up in places so I thought I might see you, though I have to say, it wasn’t on my mind much.”
“How mad are you about the lamb?” Slip said back.
“You ain’t the first to poach a lamb from me. I’d be hung long ago if I killed every hobo who comes along and eats my lamb. I just need a hand to get to Juneau and get my boy back on my boat.”
“Well, I’ll do it. I’ll leave the girl with her aunt in Ketchikan and I’ll get you to Juneau, if it’ll help you out.” Slip took out a crust of moldy bread and started to cut the green spots off.
“Let’s get you loaded up and you can cook breakfast on my boat. Looks like you’re down on your tucker again. Nobody raising lambs around here, I guess,” Carl said, through a smile.
Slip took a swig of coffee and stood up.
Annabelle stirred and spoke in a sleep-muddled voice. “Did Brother Twelve ever come back for Mary?” the girl asked. “You know, that lady on the island with the sunken boat out front. Did he ever come to save her?”
The old man looked away from the girl and spit in the fire. He did not answer the child.
“Is she still waiting?” Annabelle asked again.
“Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Is he ever going to come back?”
“That fellow was a stick and not a boomerang. She’s seen the last of Brother Twelve.” Carl Tisher stood up and slapped his old felt hat against his thigh.
“But you came to save us, didn’t you?” Annabelle said and stretched.
“That I did, young lady.” He chuckled and motioned toward the dory, and said to Slip, “Let’s get you loaded up. Sooner we get going, sooner we can have something to eat.”
The Swan was a slow and smelly boat. When Larry felt like it, he would stand at the wheel and pee down a crack into the bilge. If there were any seas at all, his aim would suffer and the piss would cascade down the steps and all over the diesel stove. Larry liked to drink whiskey and beer while he traveled, so it was a blessing the boat was so slow. The Swan would simply bounce off most everything it ran into.
Ellie slept out on the deck. There was a small cover over the trolling cockpit and she wrapped herself in a fetid blanket that Larry threw out to her. She kept the revolver close and never let herself drift into deep sleep. She was out of live rounds but Larry was too dumb to know that. The seas were calm on that first day so when they ran out of daylight Larry just found some shallow water, threw out his anchor, and went to sleep without taking his clothes off.
When the sun rose, Ellie got up and ventured down into the galley where Larry was lying tangled in a pile of dirty coats. There was a wet paper bag on the deck of the wheelhouse. A can of beans was breaking through the sack and was ready to fall down onto the bilge. She took the beans and a nasty-looking spoon from the table. Then, unable to tolerate the smell, she took the can back up on deck. Ellie’s hand hurt too badly to hold the can and open it with a knife, so she poked a circle of holes around the top with a gaff hook and, after cleaning the spoon with salt water and the hem of her dress, Ellie ate the beans for breakfast.
The commotion of opening the beans woke Larry, who rolled over, drank the last of his beer from the night before, peed in the bilge, then hooked his arms through his suspenders and greeted the day.
They traveled like this for four nights and three days. They didn’t speak much. Larry drank until he couldn’t steer and then Ellie wou
ld take the wheel. There were minimal charts, and by the time Larry was ready to finish his watch he couldn’t speak clearly enough to give Ellie a proper heading, so The Swan went down a few dead ends. Eventually they wound their way up through Behm Canal and Clarence Strait, through Stikine Strait, Wrangell Narrows, and Frederick Sound, all the way up past Glass Peninsula and into Stephens Passage. The days passed in a tableau of silver to gray to light blue, gray clouds scraping the green trees and the currents whirling through the narrow passages. Tugs with barges of lumber and stone headed south. Fishing boats with their poles up motored toward the coast. Men in dories rowed with their gear balled up in tarps, and small gas boats hauled freight with a few passengers bound for the villages. There were whales diving through the surface of Frederick Sound, and a schooner with a dozen dead eagles strung up on the boom waiting to be turned in for bounty. Each muddy little town was made lively with the shriek of a steam whistle and the thump of a pile-driving hammer, and every harbor had a scattering of hungry men wandering the docks looking for work.
Ellie was at the wheel when a humpback whale came up near the bow of the boat. She cut the engine because she wasn’t sure that the poor Swan, despite its resiliency regarding sandbars and pilings, might not come off the worse in a collision with a forty-ton beast. The whale’s great gaping mouth came to the surface and Ellie could see the haze of silvery fish inside. The rubbery creature closed its jaws and the birds dove down on the leftovers. As the whale rolled back to right itself, the eye broke the surface and Ellie felt the queasiness of being watched by a warm-blooded creature bigger than a fishing boat. The gearshift lever was a box-end wrench elaborately lashed to the linkage. Ellie kept her good hand on it as she watched the whale blow, rest, blow again, and then raise its tail to dive under the boat.